6  ERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

Uh      "^RolTY  OF 
C  >^LlFORNIA 


St.  Makk's  Eest 


THE  HISTORY  OF  VENICE 


WRITTEN  FOR    THE   HELP   QF   THE  FEW   TRAVELLERS    WHO   STILL 
CARE  FOR  HER  MONUMENTS 


JOHN    RUSKIN,   LL.D. 

HONORAEY  STUDENT  OF  CHRIST  CHURCH,  AND  SLADE  PROFESSOR  OF  FINE  ART,  OXFORD 


I.  BURDEN  OP  TYRE.     11.  LATRATOR  ANUBIS 

III.  ST.  JAMES  OF  THE  DEEP  STREAM 

IV.  ST.  THEODORE  THE  CHAIR-SELLER 
V.  THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL 

VI.   RED  AND  WHITE  CLOUDS 
Vn.  DIVINE  RIGHTS.     VIII.  THE  REQUIEM 

SUPPLElVrENTS 

FIRST— THE  SHRINE  OP  THE  SLAVES 
SECOND— THE  PLACE  OP  DRAGONS 

APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VUL 

SANCTU8,  S.VNCTUS,  SANCTU8 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  W.   LOVELL  COIVIPANY 

14  AND  16  Vesey  Street 


TROWS 

««filNTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMMIW|» 

NEW  YORK. 


X)(a 


PREFACE. 


Great  nations  write  their  autobiographies  in  three  manu- 
scripts— the  book  of  tlieir  deeds,  the  book  of  their  words,  and 
the  book  of  their  art.  Not  one  of  these  books  can  be  under- 
stood unless  w^e  read  the  two  others  ;  but  of  the  three,  the 
only  quite  trustworthy  one  is  the  last.  The  acts  of  a  nation 
may  be  triumphant  by  its  good  fortune  ;  and  its  words  mighty 
by  the  genius  of  a  few  of  its  children  :  but  its  art,  only  by 
the  general  gifts  and  common  sympathies  of  the  race. 

Again,  the  policy  of  a  nation  may  be  compelled,  and,  there- 
fore, not  indicative  of  its  true  character.  Its  words  may  be 
false,  while  yet  the  race  remain  unconscious  of  their  false- 
hood ;  and  no  historian  can  assuredly  detect  the  h^^ocrisy. 
But  art  is  always  instinctive  ;  and  the  honesty  or  pretence  of 
it  are  therefore  open  to  the  day.  The  Delphic  oracle  may  or 
may  not  have  been  spoken  by  an  honest  priestess, — we  cannot 
tell  by  the  words  of  it ;  a  liar  may  rationally  believe  them  a 
lie,  such  as  he  would  himself  have  spoken  ;  and  a  true  man, 
with  equal  reason,  may  believe  them  spoken  in:,  truth.  But 
there  is  no  question  possible  in  art :  at  a  glance  (when  we 
have  learned  to  read),  we  know  the  religion  of  Angehco  to  be 
sincere,  and  of  Titian,  assumed. 

The  evidence,  therefore,  of  the  third  book  is  the  most  vital 
to  our  knowledge  of  any  nation's  life  ;  and  the  history  of 
Venice  is  chiefly  written  in  such  manuscript.  It  once  lay 
open  on  the  waves,  miraculous,  like  St.  Cuthbert's  book, — a 
pfolden  legend  on  countless  leaves :  now,  like  Baruch's  roll,  it 
is  being  cut  with  the  penknife,  leaf  by  leaf,  and  consumed  in 
the  fire  of  the  most  biiitish  of  the  fiends.  What  fragments 
of  it  may  yet  be  saved  in  blackened  scroll,  like  those  withered 
Cottonian  relics  in  our  National  library,  of  which  so  much  haa 

047 


4  PUEFAGE. 

been  redeemed  by  love  and  skill,  this  book  will  help  you, 
partly,  to  read.  Partly,— for  I  know  only  myself  in  part ;  but 
what  I  tell  you,  so  far  as  it  reaches,  will  be  truer  than  you 
have  heard  hitherto,  because  founded  on  this  absolutely  faith- 
ful witness,  despised  by  other  historians,  if  not  wholly  unin- 
telligible to  them. 

I  am  obliged  to  write  shortly,  being  too  old  now  to  spare 
time  for  any  thing  more  than  needful  work ;  and  I  write  at 
speed,  careless  of  afterwards  remediable  mistakes,  of  which 
adverse  readers  may  gather  as  many  as  they  choose  :  that  to 
which  such  readers  are  adverse  will  be  found  truth  that  can 
abide  any  quantity  of  adversity. 

As  I  can  get  my  chapters  done,  they  shall  be  published  in 
this  form,  for  such  service  as  they  can  presently  do.  The 
entire  book  will  consist  of  not  more  than  twelve  such  parts, 
with  two  of  appendices,  forming  two  volumes :  if  I  can  get 
what  I  have  to  say  into  six  parts,  with  one  appendix,  all  the 
better. 

Two  separate  little  guides,  one  to  the  Academy,  the  other 
to  San  Giorgio  de'  Schiavoni,  will,  I  hope,  be  ready  with  the 
opening  numbers  of  this  book,  which  must  depend  somewhat 
on  their  collateral  illustration  ;  and  what  I  find  likely  to  be 
of  service  to  the  traveller  in  my  old  *  Stones  of  Venice  'is  in 
course  of  re-publication,  with  further  illustration  of  the  com- 
plete works  of  Tintoret.  But  this  cannot  be  ready  till  the 
autumn  ;  and  what  I  have  said  of  the  mightiest  of  Venetian 
masters,  in  my  lecture  on  his  relation  to  Michael  Angelo,  will 
be  enough  at  preseixt  to  enable  the  student  to  complete  the 
range  of  his  knowWge  to  the  close  of  the  story  of  'St. 
Mark's  Kesi' 


s:.^r^.r  ■ 


CONTENTS. 


PAOS 

Preface 3 


CHAPTER  I. 
The  Burden  of  Tyre  7 


CHAPTER  IL 

loATRATOR  ANUBIS 15 

CHAPTER  III. 
St.  James  of  the  Deep  Stream 25 

CHAPTER  IV. 
St.  Theodore  the  Chair-Seller 32 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Shadow  on  the  Dial 43 


CHAPTER  VI. 
Red  and  White  Clouds 49 


CHAPTER  VII. 
Divine  Right 55 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Requiem 63 

Note  on  the  Mosaics  op  St.  Mark's 87 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SUPPLEMENT  I. 
The  Shrine  of  the  Slaves 89 

SUPPLEMENT  IL 

Edited  by  J.  Buskin. 

The  Place  of  Dragons • 123 

APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 

Edited  by  J.  Buskin. 

Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Sanctus 155 

Index 181 


r'^f^'' -^r^  ' 


ST.  MARK^S  REST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   BUEDEN   OF   TYKE. 

Go  first  into  the  Piazetta,  and  stand  anywhere  in  the  shade, 
where  you  can  well  see  its  two  granite  pillars. 

Your  Murray  tells  you  that  they  are  '  famous,'  and  that  tlio 
one  is  "surmounted  by  the  bronze  lion  of  Si  Mark,  the  other 
by  the  statue  of  St.  Theodore,  the  Protector  of  the  Republic." 

It  does  not,  however,  tell  you  why,  or  for  what  the  pillars 
are  *  famous.'  Nor,  in  reply  to  a  question  which  might  con- 
ceivably occur  to  the  curious,  why  St.  Theodore  should  pro- 
tect the  Republic  by  standing  on  a  crocodile  ;  nor  whether  the 
*'  bronze  lion  of  St.  Mark  "  was  cast  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer, 
— or  some  more  ancient  and  ignorant  person  ;  nor  what  these 
rugged  corners  of  limestone  rock,  at  the  bases  of  the  granite, 
were  perhaps  once  in  the  shape  of.  Have  you  any  idea  why, 
for  the  sake  of  any  such  things,  these  pillars  were  once,  or 
should  yet  be,  more  renowned  than  the  Monument,  or  the 
column  of  the  Place  Vendome,  both  of  which  are  mucli 
bigger  ? 

Well,  they  are  famous,  first,  in  memorial  of  something 
which  is  better  worth  remembering  than  the  fire  of  London. 
or  the  achievements  of  the  great  Napoleon.  And  they  ar 
famous,  or  used  to  be,  among  artists,  because  they  are  beau- 
tiful columns ;  nay,  as  far  as  we  old  artists  know,  the  most 
beautiful  columns  at  present  extant  and  erect  in  the  convei 
iently  visitable  world. 

Each  of  these  causes  of  their  fame  I  will  try  in  some  dim 
degTee  to  set  before  you. 


8  8T.  MARK'S  REST. 

I  said  hey  were  set  there  in  memory  of  things, — not  of  the 
man  whv  did  the  things.  They  are  to  Venice,  in  fact,  what 
the  Nelsr^n  column  would  be  to  London,  if,  instead  of  a  statue 
of  Nelson  and  a  coil  of  rope,  on  the  top  of  it,  we  had  put  one 
of  the  four  Evangelists,  and  a  saint,  for  the  praise  of  the  Gos- 
pel and  of  iloliness  : — trusting  the  memory  of  Nelson  to  our 
own  souls. 

However,  t^*^  memory  of  the  Nelson  of  Venice,  being  now 
seven  hundred  y^ars  old,  has  more  or  less  faded  from  the  heart 
of  Venice  herself^  and  seldom  finds  its  way  into  the  heart  of  a 
stranger.  Somewhat  concerning  him,  though  a  stranger,  you 
may  care  to  hear,  but  you  must  hear  it  in  quiet ;  so  let  your 
boatmen  take  you  across  to  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  ;  there  you 
can  moor  your  gondola  under  the  steps  in  the  shade,  and  read 
in  peace,  looking  up  at  i-he  pillars  when  you  like. 

In  the  year  1117,  when  the  Doge  Ordelafo  Falier  had  been 
killed  under  the  walls  of  Z^ra,  Venice  chose,  for  his  successor, 
Domenico  Michiel,  Michael  of  the  Lord,  *  Cattolico  nomo  e 
audace,'^  a  catholic  and  brave-,  man,  the  servant  of  God  and  of 
St.  Michael. 

Another  of  Mr.  Murray's  publications  for  your  general  as- 
sistance (*  Sketches  from  Venetian  History ')  informs  you  that, 
at  this  time,  the  ambassadors  of  ihe  King  of  Jerusalem  (the 
second  Baldwin)  were  "  awakening  the  pious  zeal,  and  stimu- 
lating the  commercial  appetite,  of  the  Venetians." 

This  elegantly  balanced  sentence  is  meant  to  suggest  to  you 
that  the  Venetians  had  as  little  piety  as  we  have  ourselves,  and 
were  as  fond  of  money — that  article  being  the  only  one  which 
an  Englishman  could  now  think  of,  as  an  object  of  "  commer- 
cial appetite." 

The  facts  which  take  this  aspect  to  the  lively  cockney,  are, 
in  reality,  that  Venice  was  sincerely  pious,  and  intensely  covet- 
ous. But  not  covetous  merely  of  money.  She  was  covetous, 
first,  of  fame  ;   secondly,  of  kingdom  ;  thirdly,  of  pillars  of 

'  Marin  Sanuto.  Vitae  Ducum  Venetorum,  henceforward  quoted  as 
v.,  with  references  to  the  pages  of  Miiratori's  edition.  See  Appendix, 
Art.  1,  which  with  following  appendices  will  be  given  in  a  separate 
number  as  soon  as  there  are  enough  to  form  one. 


THE  niJWKX  OF  TYRE. 

mai'blc  and  granite,  siicli  as  these  that  you  see  ;  lastly,  and 
quite  principally,  of  the  relics  of  good  peopla  Such  an  '  ap- 
petite,' oli]^-f()]!ir]i^wl  roflnu'v  frioixl  i^  not  wholly  *  commer- 
cial/ 

To  the  nation  in  tins  religiously  covetous  hunger,  Baldwin 
appealed^  a  captive  to  the  Saracen.  The  Pope  sent  letters  to 
press  his  suit,  and  the  Doge  Michael  called  the  State  to  coun- 
cil in  the  church  of  St  Mark.  There  he,  and  the  Primate  of 
Venice,  and  her  nobles,  and  such  of  the  people  as  had  due  en- 
trance with  them,  by  way  of  beginning  the  business,  cele- 
brated the  Mass  of  the  Holy  Spirit  Then  the  Primate  read 
the  Pope's  letters  aloud  to  the  assembly ;  then  the  Doge  made 
the  assembly  a  sj^eech.  And  there  was  no  opi>osition  party 
in  that  parliament  to  make  opposition  speeches  ;  and  there 
were  no  reports  of  the  speech  next  morning  in  any  Times 
or  Daily  Telegraph.  And  there  were  no  plenipotentiaries 
sent  to  the  East,  and  back  again.  But  the  vote  passed  for 
war. 

The  Doge  left  his  son  in  charge  of  the  State  ;  and  sailed  for 
the  Holy  Land,  with  forty,  galleys  and  twenty-eight  beaked 
ships  of  battle — "ships  which  were  jDainted  with  divers 
colors,"  '  far  seen  in  pleasant  splendor. 

Some  faded  likeness  of  them,  twenty  years  ago,  might  be 
seen  in  the  painted  sails  of  the  fishing  lx)ats  which  lay  crowded, 
in  lowly  lustre,  where  the  development  of  civilization  now  only 
brings  black  steam-tugs,'  to  bear  the  people  of  Venice  to  the 
bathing-machines  of  Lido,  covering  their  Ducal  Palace  with 
soot,  and  consuming  its  sculptures  with  sulphurous  acid. 

The  beaked  ships  of  the  Doge  Michael  had  each  a  hundred 
oars, — each  oar  pulled  by  two  men,  not  accommodated  with 
sliding  seats,  but  breathed  well  for  their  great  boat-race  be- 
tween the  shores  of  Greece  and  Italy, — whose  names,  alas,  vnWi 

'  *  The  Acts  of  God,  by  the  Franks.'  Afterwards  quoted  as  G.  (Gesta 
Dei).     Again,  see  Appendix,  Art.  1. 

-  The  sails  may  still  be  seen  scattered  farther  east  along  the  Riva  ;  but 
the  beauty  of  the  scene,  wliich  gave  some  image  of  the  pa.st,  was  in  their 
rombination  with  the  Ducal  Pahu  itli  the  new  French  and  K: 

lish  lie.stauruuts. 


10  ST.  MARK'S  BEST, 

the  names  of  their  trainers,  are  noteless  in  the  journals  of  the 
barbarous  time. 

They  beat  their  way  across  tlie  waves,  nevertheless/  to  the 
place  by  the  sea-beach  in  Palestine  where  Dorcas  worked  for 
the  poor,  and  St.  Feter  lodged  with  his  namesake  tanner. 
There,  showing*  first  but  a  squadron  of  a  few  ships,  they  drew 
the  Saracen  fleet  out  to  sea,  and  so  set  upon  them. 

And  the  Doge,  in  his  true  Duke's  j^lace,  first  in  his  beaked 
ship,  led  for  the  Saracen  admiral's,  struck  her,  and  sunk  her. 
And  his  host  of  falcons  followed  to  the  slaughter  r  and  to  the 
prey  also, — for  the  battle  was  not  without  gratification  of  the 
commercial  appetite.  The  Venetians  took  a  number  of  ships 
containing  precious  silks,  and  "  a  quantity  of  drugs  and  pep- 
per." 

After  which  battle,  the  Doge  went  up  io  Jerusalem,  there 
to  take  further  counsel  concerning  the  use  of  his  Venetian 
power  ;  and,  being  received  there  with  honor,  kept  his  Christ- 
mas in  the  mountain  of  the  Lord. 

In  the  council  of  war  that  followed,  debate  became  stern 
whether  to  undertake  the  siege  of  Tyre  or  Ascalon.  The 
judgments  of  men  being  at  pause,  the  matter  was  given  to  the 
judgment  of  God.  They  put  the  names  of  the  two  cities  in 
an  urn,  on  the  altar  of  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre.  An  or- 
phan child  was  taken  to  draw  the  lots,  who,  putting  his  hand 
into  the  urn,  drew^  out  the  name  of  Tyre. 

Which  name  you  may  have  heard  before,  and  read  perhaps 
words  concerning  her  fall — careless  always  ivhen  the  fall  took 
place,  or  whose  sword  smote  her. 

She  was  still  a  glorious  city,  still  queen  of  the  treasures  of 
the  sea  ;  ^  chiefly  renowned  for  her  work  in  glass  and  in 
purple  ;  set  in  command  of  a  rich  plain,  "  irrigated  with  plen- 
tiful and  perfect  w^aters,  famous  for  its  sugar-canes  ;  '  fortissi- 

^  Oars,  of  course,  for  calm,  and  adverse  winds,  only  ;  bright  sails  full 
to  the  helpful  breeze. 

"^  ''  Passava  tuttavia  per  la  pin  j^opolosa  e  commerciante  di  Siria." — 
Romanin,  '  Storia  Documentata  di  Venezia,'  Venice,  1853,  vol.  ii  , 
whence  I  take  what  else  is  said  in  the  text ;  but  see  in  the  Gesta  Dei, 
tlie  older  Marin  Sanuto,  lib.  iii.,  pars.  vi.  cap.  xii.,  and  pars.  xiv.  cap.  ii. 


TUK  BURDEN  OF  TYRE.  i  i 

ma,'  she  lici-solf,  upon  her  rock,  double  walled  towards  the 
^ea,  treble  walled  to  the  l-vDd  ;  jdkI.  lo  all  s<M"Uiiii"-,  iinc.on- 
qaerable  but  by  famiue. 

For  their  help  in  this  great  siege,  the  V  enetians  made  their 
I'onditions. 

That  in  every  city  subject  to  the  King  of  Jerusalem,  the 
Venetians  should  have  a  street,  -^  square,  a  bath,  and  a  bake- 
house :  that  is  to  say,  a  pL^u;e  to  live  in,  a  place  to  meet  in, 
and  due  command  of  water  and  bread,  all  free  of  tax  ;  that 
they  should  use  their  own  balances,  weights,  and  measures 
(not  by  any  means  false  ones,  you  will  please  to  observe)  ; 
and  that  the  King  of  Jerusalem  should  pay  annually  to  the 
Doge  of  Venice,  on  the  Feast  of  Si  Peter  and  St  Paul,  three 
hundred  Saracen  byzants. 

Such,  with  due  approval  of  the  two  Apostles  of  the  Gen- 
tiles, being  the  claims  of  these  Gentile  mariners  from  the 
King  of  the  Holy  Cit}^  the  same  were  accepted  in  these  terms  : 
''In  the  name  of  the  Holy  and  undivided  Trinity  of  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  these  are  the  treaties 
which  Baldwin,  second  King  of  the  Latins  in  Jerusalem,  made 
with  St.  Mark  and  Dominicus  Michael " ;  and  ratified  by  the 
signatures  of — 

GuARiMOND,  Patriarch  of  Jerusalem  ; 

Ebremaii,  Ai'chbishop  of  C^esarea  ; 

Beunaiu),  Archbishop  of  Nazareth  ; 

AsQuiRiN,  Bishop  of  Bethlehem  ; 

GoLDUMus,  Abbot  of  St.  Mary's,  in  the  Vale  of  Jehoshaphat ; 

AcciL\RD,  Prior  of  the  Temple  of  the  Lord  ; 

Gerard,  Prior  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  ; 

Arnard,  Prior  of  Mount  Syon  ;  and 

Hugo  de  Pagano,  Master  of  the  Soldiers  of  the  Temple. 

With  others  many,  whose  names  are  in  the  chronicle 

of  Andrea  Dandolo. 

And  thereupon  tiie  i^  rciich  crusaders  by  land,  and  the  Vene- 
tians by  sea,  drew  line  of  siege  round  Tyre. 

You  will  not  expect  me  here,  at  St.  George's  steps,  to  gi\( 


12  S7\  MARK'S  REST,    ^ 

account  of  the  various  mischief  done  on  each  other  with  the 
dart,  the  stone,  and  the  fire,  by  the  Christian  and  Saracen, 
day  by  day.  Both  were  at  last  wearied,  when  report  came  of 
help  to  the  Tynans  by  an  army  from  Damascus,  and  a  fleet 
from  Egypt.  Upon  wliich  news,  discord  arose  in  the  invad- 
ing camp  ;  and  rumor  went  abroad  that  the  Venetians  would 
desert  their  allies,  and  save  themselves  in  their  fleet.  TKese 
reports  coming  to  the  ears  of  the  Doge,  he  took  (according  to 
tradition)  the  sails  from  his  ships'  masts,  and  the  rudders 
from  their  stems,'  and  brought  sails,  rudders,  and  tackle 
ashore,  and  into  the  French  camp,  adding  to  these,  for  his 
pledge,  "  grave  words." 

The  French  knights,  in  shame  of  their  miscreance,  bade 
him  refit  his  ships.  The  Count  of  Tripoli  and  William  of 
Bari  were  sent  to  make  head  against  the  Damascenes ;  and 
the  Doge,  leaving  ships  enough  to  blockade  the  port,  sailed 
himself,  with  what  could  be  spared,  to  find  the  Egyptian  fleet. 
He  sailed  to  Alexandria,  showed  his  sails  along  the  coast  in 
defiance,  and  returned. 

Meantime  his  coin  for  payment  of  his  mariners  was  spent. 
He  did  not  care  to  depend  on  remittances.  He  struck  a 
coinage  of  leather,  with  St.  Mark's  and  his  own  shield  on  it, 
promising  his  soldiers  that  for  every  leathern  rag,  so  signed, 
at  Venice,  there  should  be  given  a  golden  zecchin.  And  his 
word  was  taken  ;  and  his  word  was  kept. 

So  the  steady  siege  went  on,  till  the  Tyrians  lost  hope,  and 
asked  terms  of  surrender. 

They  obtained  secunty  of  person  and  property,  to  the  in- 
dignation of  the  Christian  soldiery,  who  had  expected  the 
sack  of  Tyre.     The  city  was  divided  into  three  parts,  of  which 


'  By  doing  this  he  left  his  fleet  helpless  before  an  enemy,  for  naval 
warfare  at  this  time  depended  wholly  on  the  fine  steering  of  the  ships 
at  the  ^moment  of  onset.  But  for  all  ordinary  mana3uvres  necessary 
for  the  safety  of  the  fleet  in  harbor,  their  oars  were  enough.  Andrea 
Dandolo  says  he  took  a  plank  ("tabula")  out  of  each  ship, — a  more 
fatal  injury.  I  suspect  the  truth  to  have  been  that  he  simply  un- 
shipped the  rudders,  and  brought  them  into  camp  ;  a  grave  speechless 
symbol,  earnest  enough,  but  not  costly  of  useless  labor. 


77//;  nUIlDKN   OF  TYUK.  I   = 

iwo  wci-c  ['i     I     ;      the  Kin^  of  Jorusalcm,  the  third  1 
\  (iuetians. 

How  13al{i\vm  govt'nuMi  ins  two  liiirds,  i  (io  iioi  know,  nor 
A\  hat  capacity  there  was  in  the  Tyrians  of  being  governed  at 
all.  But  the  Venetians,  for  their  third  part,  appointed  a 
*  bailo  *  to  do  civil  justice,  and  a  '  viscount '  to  answer  for  mili- 
tary defence  ;  and  appointed  magistrates  under  these,  who, 
'11  entering  office,  took  the  following  oath  :  — 

''I  swear  on  the  holy  Gospels  of  God,  that  sincerely  and 
^^  ithout  fraud  I  will  do  right  to  all  men  who  are  under  the 
jurisdiction  of  Venice  in  the  city  of  Tyre  ;  and  to  every  other 
who  shall  be  brought  before  me  for  judgment,  according  to 
the  ancient  use  and  law  of  the  city.  And  so  far  as  I  know 
not,  and  am  left  uninformed  of  that,  I  will  act  by  such  rule  as 
shall  appear  to  me  just,  according  to  the  appeal  and  answer. 
Farther,  I  will  give  faithful  and  honest  counsel  to  the  Bailo 
and  the  Viscount,  ivhen  lam  asked  for  it ;  and  if  they  share  any 
secret  with  me,  I  will  keep  it ;  neither  will  I  procure  by 
fraud,  good  to  a  friend,  nor  evil  to  an  enemy."  And  thus  the 
Venetian  state  planted  stable  colonies  in  Asia. 

Thus  far  Eomanin  ;  to  whom,  nevertheless,  it  does  not 
occur  to  ask  what  '  establishing  colonies  in  Asia '  meant  for 
Venice.  Whether  they  were  in  Asia,  Africa,  or  the  Island  of 
Atlantis,  did  not  at  this  time  greatly  matter  ;  but  it  mattered 
infinitely  that  they  were  colonies  living  in  fnendly  relations 
loith  the  Saracen,  and  that  at  the  very  same  moment  arose 
cause  of  quite  other  than  friendly  relations,  between  tli^  Vo- 
netian  and  the  Greek. 

For  while  the  Doge  Michael  fought  for  the  Christian  king 
lit  Jerusalem,  the  Chiistiau  emperor  at  Byzantium  attacked 
the  defenceless  states  of  Venice,  on  the  mainland  of  Dalmatia, 
and  seized  their  cities.  Whereupon  the  Doge  set  sail  home- 
wards,  fell  on  the  Greek  islands  of  the  Egean,  and  took  the 
spoil  of  them  ;  seized  Cephalonia  ;  recovered  the  lost  cities  of 
Dalmatia  ;  compelled  the  Greek  emperor  to  sue  for  peace, — 
gave  it,  in  angiy  sconi  ;  and  set  his  sails  at  last  for  his  own 
Rial  to,  with  i\\Q  sceptres  of  Tyro  and  of  Byzantiui 
the  feet  of  Venica 


14  ST.  MARICS  REST. 

Spoil  also  lie  brought,  enoiigh,  of  such  commercial  kind  as 
Venice  valued.  These  pillars  that  you  look  upon,  of  rosy  and 
gray  rock  ;  and  the  dead  bodies  of  St.  Donato  and  St.  Isidore. 

He  thus  returned,  in  1126  :  Fate  had  left  him  yet  four 
years  to  live.  In  which,  among  other  homely  work,  he  made 
the  beginning  for  you  (oh  much  civilized  friend,  you  will  at 
least  praise  him  in  this)  of  these  mighty  gaseous  illuminations 
by  which  Venice  provides  for  your  seeing  her  shop-wares  by 
night,  and  provides  against  your  seeing  the  moon,  or  stars,  or 
sea. 

For,  finding  the  narrow  streets  of  Venice  dark,  and  oppor- 
tune for  robbers,  he  ordered  that  at  the  heads  of  them  there 
should  be  set  little  tabernacles  for  images  of  the  saints,  and 
bdlPore  each  a  light  kept  burning.  Thus  he  commands, — not 
as  thinking  that  the  saints  themselves  had  need  of  candles, 
but  that  they  would  gladly  grant  to  poor  mortals  in  danger, 
material  no  less  than  heavenly  light. 

And  having  in  this  pretty  and  lowly  beneficence  ended 
what  work  he  had  to  do  in  this  world,  feeling  his  strength 
fading,  he  laid  down  sword  and  ducal  robe  together  ;  and  be- 
came a  monk,  in  this  island  of  St.  George,  at  the  shore  of 
which  you  are  reading  :  but  the  old  monastery  on  it  which 
sheltered  him  was  destroyed  long  ago,  that  this  stately  Palla- 
dian  portico  might  be  built,  to  delight  Mr.  Eustace  on  his 
classical  tour, — and  other  such  men  of  renown, — and  persons 
of  excellent  taste,  like  yourself. 

And  there  he  died,  and  was  buried ;  and  there  he  lies,  vir- 
tually tombless  ;  the  place  of  his  grave  you  find  by  going 
down  the  steps  on  your  right  hand  behind  the  altar,  leading 
into  what  was  yet  a  monastery  before  the  last  Italian  revolu- 
tion, but  is  now  a  finally  deserted  loneliness. 

Over  his  grave  there  is  a  heap  of  frightful  modern  uj)hol- 
sterer's  work, — Longhena's  ;  his  first  tomb  (of  which  you  may 
see  some  probable  likeness  in  those  at  the  side  of  St.  John 
and  St.  Paul)  being  removed  as  too  modest  and  time  worn  for 
the  vulgar  Venetian  of  the  seventeenth  century;  and  this, 
that  you  see,  put  up  to  please  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the 
beadles. 


LaTRATOR  an V bis.  15 

The  old  inscription  wiis  copied  on  the  rotten  black  slate 
which  is  breaking  away  in  thin  flakes,  dimmed  by  dusty  salt. 
The  beginning  of  it  yet  remains :  '*  Here  lies  the  Terror  of 
the  Greeks."     Ilead  also  the  last  lines  : 

**  Whosoever  thou  art,  who  comest  to  behold  this  tomb  of 
HIS,  BOW  thyself  down  before  God,  because  of  him." 

Of  these  things,  then,  the  two  pillars  before  you  are 
'  famous '  in  memorial.  What  in  themselves  they  i:)Ossess 
deserving  honor,  we  will  next  try  to  discern.  But  you  must 
row  a  little  nearer  to  the  pillars,  so  as  to  see  them  clearly. 


CHAPTER  H. 

latrator  anubis. 


I  said  these  pillars  were  the  most  beautiful  known  to  me  ; 
but  you  must  understand  this  saying  to  be  of  the  whole  jiillar 
— group  of  base,  shaft,  and  capital — not  only  of  theii'  shafts. 

You  know  so  much  of  architecture,  perhaps,  as  that  an 
*  order '  of  it  is  the  system,  connecting  a  shaft  with  its  capital 
iud  cornice.  And  you  can  surely  feel  so  much  of  architect- 
ure, as  that,  if  you  took  the  heads  off  these  pillars,  and  set 
the  granite  shafts  simply  upright  on  the  pavement,  they 
would  perhaps  remind  you  of  ninepins,  or  rolUng-pins,  but 
would  in  no  wise  contribute  either  to  respectful  memory  of 
the  Doge  Michael,  or  to  the  beauty  of  the  Piazzetta. 

Their  beauty,  which  has  been  so  long  instinctively  felt  by 
!  rtists,  consists  then  first  in  the  proportion,  and  then  in  the 
(  ropriety  of  their  several  parts.  Do  not  confuse  proportion 
\  ith  propriety.     An  elephant  is  as  properly  made  as  a  stag ; 

ut  he  is  not  so  gracefully  proportioned.  In  fine  architect- 
ure, and  all  other  fine  arts,  grace  and  propriety  meet. 

I  will  take  the  fitness  first.     You  sec  that  both  these  pillars 

ave  wide  bases  of  successi^  )U  can  feel  that  these 

'  Restored,— l)ut  they  always  niu.-t  '.     .   *  i  ,  '      ; 

portion. 


IC)  ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 

would  be  '  improper '  round  the  pillars  of  an  arcade  in  which 
people  walked,  because  they  would  be  in  the  way.  But  they 
are  proper  here,  because  they  tell  us  the  pillar  is  to  be  iso- 
lated, and  that  it  is  a  monument  of  importance.  Look  from 
these  shafts  to  the  arcade  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  Its  pillars 
have  been  found  fault  with  for  w^anting  bases.  But  they 
were  meant  to  be  walked  beside  without  stumbling. 

Next,  you  see  the  tops  of  the  capitals  of  the  great  pillars 
spread  wide,  into  flat  tables.  You  can  feel,  surely,  that  these 
are  entirely  *  proper,'  to  afford  room  for  the  statues  they  are 
to  receive,  and  that  the  edges,  wdiich  bear  no  weight,  may 
'  properly  '  extend  widely.  But  suppose  a  weight  of  superin- 
cumbent wall  were  to  be  laid  on  these  pillars  ?  The  extent 
of  capital  which  is  now  graceful,  would  then  be  weak  and 
ridiculous. 

Thus  far  of  j^ropriety,  whose  simple  laws  are  soon  satisfied  : 
next,  of  proportion. 

You  see  that  one  of  the  shafts — the  St.  Theodore's — is  much 
more  slender  than  the  other. 

One  general  law  of  proportion  is  that  a  slender  shaft  should 
have  a  slender  capital,  and  a  ponderous  shaft,  a  ponderous 
one. 

But  had  this  law  been  here  followed,  the  companion  pillars 
would  have  instantly  become  ill-matched.  The  eye  would 
have  discerned  in  a  moment  the  fat  pillar  and  the  lean.  They 
would  never  have  become  the  fraternal  pillars — '  the  two  '  of 
the  Piazzetta. 

With  subtle,  scarcely  at  first  traceable,  care,  the  designer 
varied  the  curves  and  weight  of  his  capitals  ;  and  gave  the 
massive  head  to  the  slender  shaft,  and  the  slender  capital  to 
the  massive  shaft.  And  thus  they  stand  in  symmetry,  and 
uncontending  equity. 

Next,  for  the  form  of  these  capitals  themselves,  and  the 
date  of  them. 

You  will  find  in  the  guide-books  that  though  the  shafts 
were  brought  home  by  the  Doge  in  1126,  no  one  could  be 
found  able  to  set  them  up,  until  the  year  1171,  when  a  certain 
Lombard,  called  Nicholas  of  the  Barterers,  raised  them,  and 


L.  I  riiA  roil  AX  cms,  1 7 

for  reward  of  such  engineering  skill,  bargained  that  he  might 
keep  tables  for  forbidden  games  of  chance  between  the  shafts. 
Whereupon  the  Senate  ord-r^d  f^'^^  pvp.Mitio^.c  cl.onL}  f^l^r) 
lake  place  between  them. 

You  read,  and  smile,  and  pass  on  with  a  dim  sense  of  iiav- 
ing  heard  something  like  a  good  story. 

Yes  ;  of  which  I  will  pmy  you  to  remark,  that  at  that  un- 
civilized time,  games  of  chance  were  forbidden  in  Venice,  and 
that  in  these  modern  civiUzed  times  they  are  not  forbidden  ; 
and  one,  that  of  the  lotteiy,  even  promoted  by  the  Govern- 
ment as  gainful  :  and  that  perhaps  the  Venetian  people  might 
find  itself  more  prosperous  on  the  whole  by  obeying  that  law 
of  their  fathers,'  and  ordering  that  no  lottery  should  be  di"xiwn, 
except  in  a  place  where  somebody  had  been  hanged.^  But 
the  curious  thing  is  that  while  this  pretty  story  is  never  for- 
gotten, about  the  raising  of  the  pillars,  nothing  is  ever  so 
much  as  questioned  about  who  put  their  tops  and  bases  to 
them  ! — nothing  about  the  resolution  that  lion  or  saint  should 
stand  to  preach  on  them, — nothing  about  the  Saint's  sermon, 
or  the  Lion's  ;  nor  enough,  even,  concerning  the  name  or  oc- 
cupation of  Nicholas  the  Barterer,  to  lead  the  pensive  traveller 
into  a  profitable  observance  of  the  appointment  of  Fate,  that 
in  this  Tyre  of  the  West,  the  city  of  merchants,  her  monu- 
ments of  triumph  over  the  TjTe  of  the  East  should  forever 
stand  signed  by  a  tradition  recording  the  stern  judgment  of 
her  youth  against  the  gambler's  lust,  which  was  the  passion 
of  her  old  age. 

But  now  of  the  capitals  themselves.  If  you  are  the  least 
interested  in  architecture,  should  it  not  be  of  some  import- 
ance to  you  to  note  the  style  of  them  ?  Twelfth  century 
capitals,  as  fresh  as  when  they  came  from  the  chisel,  are  not 
to  be  seen  every  day,  or  everywhere — much  less  capitals  like 
these,  a  fathom  or  so  broad  and  high  !     And  if  you  know  the 


iiiuial  oi"  it  y 

•^  It  orders  iicv  should  be  at  the  fo 

Campanile  ;  and,  weekly,  tiie   mob  of  Venire,  patli 
lilis  the  marble  ])orcliefj  with  it.s  anxious  murmur. 


18  m\  MAUK'S  llEST, 

architecture  of  England  and  France  in  the  twelfth  century, 
3'Ou  will  find  these  capitals  still  more  interesting  from  their 
extreme  difference  in  manner.  Not  the  least  like  our  clumps 
and  humps  and  cushions,  are  they  ?  For  these  are  living 
Greek  w^ork,  still ;  not  savage  Norman  or  clumsy  Northum- 
brian, these  ;  but  of  pure  Corinthian  race  ;  yet,  with  Venetifin 
practicalness  of  mind,  solidified  from  the  rich  clusters  of  light 
leafage  which  wei-e  their  ancient  form.  You  must  find  time 
for  a  little  practical  cutting  of  capitals  yourself,  before  you 
wdll  discern  the  beauty  of  these.  There  is  nothing  like  a 
littl<^  work  with  the  fingers  for  teaching  the  eyes. 

As  you  go  home  to  lunch,  therefore,  buy  a  pound  of  Gruyere 
cheese,  or  of  any  other  equally  tough  and  bad,  wdth  as  few 
holes  in  it  as  may  be.  And  out  of  this  pound  of  cheese,  at 
lunch,  cut  a  solid  cube  as  neatly  as  you  can. 

Now  all  treatment  of  capitals  depends  primarily  on  the  way 
in  which  a  cube  of  stone,  like  this  of  cheese,  is  left  by  the 
carver  square  at  the  top,  to  carry  the  w^all,  and  cut  round  at 
the  bottom  to  fit  its  circular  pillar.  Proceed  therefore  to  cut 
your  cube  so  that  it  may  fit  a  round  pillar  of  cheese  at  the 
bottom,  such  as  is  extracted,  for  tasting,  by  magnanimous 
cheesemongers,  for  customers  worth  their  while.  Your  first 
namral  proceeding  will  of  course  be  to  cut  off  four  corners  ; 
so  making  an  octagon  at  the  bottom,  which  is  a  good  part  of 
the  w^ay  to  a  circle.  Now  if  you  cut  off  those  corners  with 
rather  a  long,  sweeping  cut,  as  if  you  were  cutting  a  pencil, 
you  will  see  that  already  you  have  got  very  near  the  shape  of 
the  Piazzetta  capitals.  But  you  will  come  still  nearer,  if  you 
make  each  of  these  simple  corner-cuts  into  two  narrower 
ones,  thus  bringing  the  lower  portion  of  your  bit  of  cheese 
into  a  twelve-sided  figure.  And  you  will  see  that  each  of 
these  double-cut  angles  now  has  taken  more  or  less  the  shape 
of  a  leaf,  with  its  central  rib  at  the  angle.  And  if,  further, 
with  such  sculpturesque  and  graphic  talent  as  may  be  in  you, 
you  scratch  out  the  real  shape  of  a  leaf  at  the  edge  of  the 
cuts  and  run  furrows  from  its  outer  lobes  to  the  middle, — 
behold,  you  have  your  Piazzetta  capital.  All  but  have  it,  I 
should  say  ;  only  this  *  all  but '  is  nearly  all  the  good  of  it, 


^vhicll  comes  of  the  cxccecimg  liiicness  ^vith  \viiicii  the  simple 
curves  are  di-awii,  and  reconciled. 

Nevertheless,  you  will  have  learned,  if  sagacious  in  sue] 
matters,  by  this  quarter  of  an  hour's  carving,  so  much  oi 
architectural  art  as  will  enable  you  to  discern,  and  to  eiijov 
the  treatment  of,  all  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  century  capi 
tals  in  Venice,  which,  without  exception,  when  of  native  cut 
ting,  are  concave  bells  like  this,  with  either  a  springing  leai 
or  a  bending  boss  of  stone  which  would  become  a  leaf  if  i  i 
w^ere   furrowed,  at  the  angles.     But  the  fonrtconth   century 
brings  a  change. 

Before  I  tell  you  what  took  2)lace  in  the  fouict  ciiUi  ci^-niui y, 
you  must  cut  yourself  another  cube  of  Gruyere  cheese.  You 
see  that  in  the  one  you  have  made  a  capital  of  already,  a  good 
weight  of  cheese  out  of  the  cube  has  been  cut  away  in  taj^er- 
ing  down  those  long-leaf  comers.  Suppose  you  try  now  to 
make  a  capital  of  it  without  cutting  away  so  much  cheese.  If 
you  begin  half  way  down  the  side,  with  a  shorter  but  more 
curved  cut,  you  may  reduce  the  base  to  the  same  form,  and — 
supposing  you  are  working  in  mai'ble  instead  of  cheese — you 
have  not  only  much  less  trouble,  but  you  keep  a  much  more 
solid  block  of  stone  to  bear  suj^erincumbent  weight. 

Now  you  may  go  back  to  the  Piazzetta,  and,  thence  pro- 
ceeding, so  as  to  get  well  in  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  look 
first  to  the  Greek  shaft  capitals,  and  then  to  those  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  upper  arcade.  You  will  recognize,  especially  in 
those  nearest  the  Ponte  Vlella  Paglia  (at  least,  if  you  have  an 
eye  in  your  head),  the  shape  of  your  second  block  of  Gniy^ro, 
— decorated,  it  is  true,  in  manifold  ways,  but  essentially 
shaped  like  your  most  cheaply  cut  block  of  cheese.  Modern 
architects,  in  imitating  these  capitals,  can  reach  as  far  as — 
imitating  your  Giiiyere.  Not  being  able  to  decorate  th( 
l>lock  when  they  have  got  it,  they  declai*e  that  decoration  is 
^'  a  superficial  merit.'* 

Yes, — very  superficial.  Eyelashes  and  eyebrows — lips  and 
nostrils — chin-dimples  and  curling  hair,  are  all  veiy  superficial 
things,  wherewith  Heaven  decorates  the  human  skull ;  making 
Hk^  maid's  face  of  it,  or  the  knight's.     Nevertheless,  wliat  1 


20  ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 

want  you  to  notice  now,  is  but  the  form  of  the  block  of  Istrian 
stone,  usually  with  a  spiral,  more  or  less  elaborate,  on  each  of 
its  projecting  angles.  For  there  is  infinitude  of  history  in 
that  solid  angle,  prevailing  over  the  light  Greek  leaf.  That  is 
related  to  our  humps  and  clumps  at  Durham  and  Winchester. 
Here  is,  indeed,  Norman  temper,  prevailing  over  Bj^zantine  ; 
and  it  means, — the  outcome  of  that  quarrel  of  Michael  with 
the  Greek  Emperor.  It  means — western  for  eastern  life,  in 
the  mind  of  Venice.  It  means  her  fellowship  with  the  west- 
ern chivalry  ;  her  triumph  in  the  Crusades, — triumph  over 
her  own  foster  nurse,  Byzantium. 

Which  significances  of  it,  and  many  others  with  them,  if 
we  would  follow,  we  must  leave  our  stone-cutting  for  a  little 
while,  and  map  out  the  chart  of  Venetian  history  from  its  be- 
ginning into  such  masses  as  we  may  remember  without  con- 
fusion. 

But,  since  this  will  take  time,  and  we  cannot  quite  tell  how 
long  it  may  be  before  we  get  back  to  the  twelfth  century 
again,  and  to  our  Piazzetta  shafts,  let  me  complete  what  I  can 
tell  you  of  these  at  once. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark  is  a  splendid  piece 
of  eleventh  or  twelfth  century  bronze.  I  know  that  by  the 
style  of  him  ;  but  have  never  found  out  where  he  came  from.^ 
I  may  now  chance  on  it,  however,  at  any  moment  in  other  quests. 
Eleventh  or  twelfth  century,  the  Lion — fifteenth,  or  later,  his 
wings  ;  very  delicate  in  feather-workmanship,  but  with  little 
lift  or  strike  in  them  ;  decorative  mainly.  Without  doubt  his 
first  wings  were  thin  sheets  of  beaten  bronze,  shred  into  plu- 
mage ;  far  wider  in  their  sweep  than  these.  ^ 

1  **He" — the  actual  piece  of  forged  metal,  I  mean.  (See  Appendix 
II.  for  account  of  its  recent  botchings.)  Your  modern  English  explain- 
ers of  him  have  never  heard,  I  observe,  of  any  such  person  as  an 
'  Evangelist,'  or  of  any  Christian  symbol  of  such  a  being !  See  page  42 
of  Mr.  Adams'  '  Venice  Past  and  Present '  (Edinburgh  and  New  York, 
1852). 

^  I  am  a  little  proud  of  this  guess,  for  before  correcting  this  sentence 
in  type,  I  found  the  sharp  old  wings  represented  faithfully  in  the  wood- 
cut of  Venice  in  1480,  in  the  Correr  Museum.  Durer,  in  1500,  draws 
the  present  wings  ;  so  that  we  get  their  date  fixed  within  twenty  years. 


LArUATOH  AmiBTS.  -\ 

The  stilt  lie  of  Si  Theodore,  whatever  its  age,  is  wholly 
without  merit.  I  can't  make  it  out  myself,  nor  find  record  of 
it :  in  a  stonemason's  yard,  I  should  have  passed  it  as  modem. 
But  this  merit  of  the  statue  is  here  of  little  consequence, — 
the  power  of  it  being  wholly  in  its  meaning. 

St.  Theodore  represents  the  power  of  the  Spirit  of  God  in 
all  noble  and  useful  animal  life,  conquering  what  is  venomous, 
useless,  or  in  decay  :  he  differs  from  St.  George  in  contending 
with  material  evil,  instead  of  with  sinful  passion :  the  croco- 
dile on  which  he  stands  is  the  Dragon  of  Eg3q)t ;  slime-be- 
gotten of  old,  worshipped  in  its  malignant  power,  for  a  God. 
St.  Theodore's  martyrdom  was  for  breaking  such  idols  ;  and 
with  beautiful  instinct  Venice  took  him  in  her  earUest  days 
for  her  protector  and  standard-bearer,  representing  the  heav- 
enly life  of  Christ  in  men,  prevailing  over  chaos  and  the  deep. 

With  far  more  than  instinct, — with  solemn  recognition,  and 
X)rayerful  vow,  she  took  him  in  the  pride  of  her  chivalry,  in 
mid-thirteenth  century,  for  the  master  of  that  chivahy  in  their 
gentleness  of  home  ministries.  The  'Mariegola'  (Mother- 
Law)  of  the  school  of  St.  Theodore,  by  kind  fate  yet  preserved 
to  us,  contains  the  legend  they  believed,  in  its  completeness, 
and  their  vow  of  service  and  companionship  in  all  its  terms. 

Either  of  which,  if  you  care  to  understand, — several  other 
matters  and  writings  must  be  undei*stood  first ;  and,  among 
others,  a  pretty  piece  of  our  own  much  boasted, — how  little 
obeyed, — Mother-Law,  sung  still  by  statute  in  our  churches 
at  least  once  in  the  month  ;  the  eighty-sixth  Psalm.  *'  Her 
foundations  are  in  the  holy  Mountains."  I  hope  you  can  go 
on  with  it  by  heart,  or  at  least  have  your  Bible  in  your  port- 
manteau. Li  the  remote  possibility  that  you  may  have  thought 
its  carriage  unnecessarily  expensive,  here  is  the  Latin  psalm, 
with  its  modern  Italian-Catholic  '  translation  ;  watery  enough, 
this  last,  but  a  clear  and  wholesome,  though  little  vapid,  dilu- 
tion and  diffusion  of  its  text, — making  much  intelUgible  to 

•  From  tho  *  Uffizio  della  B.  V.  Maria,  Ttaliano  e  Latino,  per  tutti  i 
tempi  deir  anno,  del  Padre  O.  Croiset,'  a  well  printed  and  most  service- 
able little  duodecimo  volume,  for  any  one  wishiiii^  to  know  somewhat 
of  Roman  Catholic  offices.     Published  in  Milan  and  Venice. 


22 


ST.  MABK'8  REST. 


the  Protestant  reader,  which  his  'private  judgment'  might 
occasionally  have  been  at  fault  in. 

Fundamenta  eius  in  mon- 1  Gerusalemme  e  fabbricata  sopra 
tibus  Sanctis  :  diligit  Dominus  { ^  ^^^^^  monti :  Iddio  ne  prende  piti 
portas  Sion  super  omnia  taber- 1  ''''''^'  ^  ^'  ^'""'^  P^^  ^^^  ^^^^^i  S^i  '^^^^i 
nacula  lacob.  '^}'^'  '^''  ^"^  ^^^"  P^P^^^    ^^^^^ 

Gloriosa   dicta   sunt  de  te, 
civitas  Dei. 

Memor  ero  Eahab  et  Baby- 
lonis,  scientium  me. 


Ecce  alienigense,  et  Tyrus, 
et  populus  ^thiopum  hi  fue- 
runt  illic. 

Numquid  Sion  dicet :  Homo 
et  homo  natus  est  in  ea,  et  ipse 
fundavit  eam  Altissimus  ? 

Dominus  narrabit  in  scrip- 
turis  populorum  et  principum : 
horum  qui  fuerunt  in  ea. 

Sicut  Isetantium  omnium 
habitatio  est  in  te. 


abitati. 

Quante  cose  tutte  piene  di  lode 
sono  state  dette  di  voi,  citta  di 
Dio! 

Non  lascero  neir  oblivione  ne  V 
Egitto  ne  Babilonia,  dacclie  que* 
popoli  mi  avranno  riconosciuto  per 
loro  Dio: 

Quanti  popoli  stranieri,  Tiri,  Eti- 
opi,  sino  a  quel  punto  miei  nemici, 
verranno  a  prestarmi  i  loro  omaggi. 

Ognuno  dira  allora:  Vedete  come 
questa  citta  si  e  popolata !  V  Altissi- 
mo  r  ha  fondata  e  vuole  metterla 
in  fiore. 

Egli  percio  e  V  unico  che  conosca 
il  numero  del  popolo  e  de'  grandi 
clie  ne  sono  gli  abitanti. 


Non  vi  e  vera  felicita,  se  non  per 
coloro  che  vi  haune  1'  abitazione. 


Reading  then  the  psalm  in  these  words,  you  have  it  as  the 
Western  Christians  sang  it  ever  since  St.  Jerome  wrote  it  into 
such  interpretation  for  them  ;  and  you  must  try  io  feel  it  as 
these  Western  Christians  of  Venice  felt  it,  having  now  their 
own  street  in  the  holy  city,  and  their  covenant  with  the  Prior 
of  Mount  Syon,  and  of  the  Temple  of  the  Lord :  they  them- 
selves having  struck  down  Tyre  with  their  own  swords,  taken 
to  themselves  her  power,  and  now  reading,  as  of  themselves, 
the  encompassing  benediction  of  the  prophecy  for  all  Gentile 
Nations,  ''  Ecce  alienigense — et  Tyrus."     A  notable  piece  of 


Scripture  lor  them,  t6  be  dwelt  on,  in  every  word  of  it,  with 
all  liumility  of  faith. 

What  then  ''^  tl?'*  niL^uuii^  ui  U^u  i„o  \^i:  ^.i^icLmnL^ 

these?  — 

"  Glorious  thingy  are  spoken  of  thee,  thou  Cily  of  God.  J 
will  make  mention  of  liahab  and  Babylon,  with  them  thai 
know  me.' 

If  you  like  to  see  a  curious  mistake  at  least  of  one  Protes- 
tant's *  private  judgment'  of  this  verse,  you  must  look  at  my 
reference  to  it  in  Fors  Clavigera  of  Apiil,  1876,  p.  110,  wdtli 
its  correction  by  Mr.  Gordon,  in  Fors  for  June,  1876,  pp.  178- 
203,  all  containing  variously  useful  notes  on  these  verses  ;  of 
which  the  gist  is,  however,  that  the  '  Rahab '  of  the  Latin  text 
is  the  Eg\7:)tiaii  *  Dragon,'  the  crocodile,  signifying  in  myth, 
which  has  now  been  three  thousand  years  continuous  in  human 
mind,  the  total  power  of  the  crocodile-god  of  Egypt,  couchant 
on  his  slime,  h(mn  of  it,  mistakable  for  it, — his  gray  length  of 
unintelligible  scales,  fissured  and  wrinkled  like  dry  clay,  itself 
but,  as  it  were,  a  shelf  or  shoal  of  coagulated,  malignant  earth. 
He  and  his  company,  the  deities  bom  of  the  earth — beast 
headed, — with  only  animal  cries  for  voices  :  — 

'*  Omnigenumque  De^.m  monstra,  et  latrator  Anubis 
Contra  Neptunum  et  Venerem,  coiitraque  Miner vam." 

This  is  St.  Theodore's  Dragon-enemy — Egj-pt,  and  her  captiv- 
ity; bondage  of  the  earth,  literally  to  the  Israehte,  in  making 
bricks  of  it,  the  first  condition  of  form  for  the  God :  in  stern- 
er than  mere  literal  truth,  the  captivity  of  the  spirit  of  man, 
\vhether  to  earth  or  to  its  creatures. 

And  St.  Theodore's  victory  is  making  the  earth  his  pedestal, 
instead  of  his  adversary;  he  is  the  power  of  gentle  and  rational 
Hfe,  reigning  over  the  wild  creatures  and  senseless  forces  of 
the  world.  The  Latrator  Anubis — most  senseless  and  cruel 
of  the  guardians  of  hell — becoming,  by  human  mercy,  the 
faithfuUest  of  creature-fnends  to  man. 

Do  you  think  all  this  work  useless  in  your  Venetian  guide  ? 
There  is  not  a  picture, — not  a  legend, — scarcely  a  column  or 
an  ornament,  in  the  art  of  Venice  or  of  Italy,  which,  by  this 


24  ,si\  MARK'S  REST. 

piece  of  work,  well  done,  will  not  become  more  precious  to 
you.  Have  you  ever,  for  instance,  noticed  how  the  baying  of 
Cerberus  is  stopped,  in  the  sixth  canto  of  Dante, — 

**  II  duca  niio 
Prese  Id  terra;  et  con  piene  le  pugne 
La  gitto  dentro  alle  bramose  canne." 

(To  the  three,  therefore  plural.)  It  is  one  of  the  innumerable 
subtleties  which  mark  Dante's  perfect  knowledge — ^inconceiv- 
able except  as  a  form  of  inspiration — of  the  inner  meaning  of 
every  myth,  whether  of  classic  or  Christian  theology,  known 
in  his  day. 

Of  the  relation  of  the  dog,  horse,  and  eagle  to  the  chivalry 
of  Europe,  you  will  find,  if  you  care  to  read,  more  noted,  in 
relation  to  part  of  the  legend  of  St.  Theodore,  in  the  Fors  of 
March,  this  year  ;  the  rest  of  his  legend,  with  what  is  notablest 
in  his  'Mariegola,'  I  will  tell  you  when  we  co^e  to  examine 
Carpaccio's  canonized  birds  and  beasts ;  of  which,  to  refresh 
you  after  this  piece  of  hard  ecclesiastical  reading  (for  I  can't 
tell  you  about  the  bases  of  the  pillars  to-day.  We  must  get 
into  another  humor  to  see  these),  you  may  see  within  five 
minutes'  walk,  three  together,  in  the  little  chapel  of  St.  George 
of  the  Schiavoni :  St.  George's  '  Porphyrio,'  the  bird  of  chas- 
tity, with  the  bent  spray  of  sacred  vervain  in  its  beak,  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  on  which  St.  George  is  baptizing  the  prin- 
cess ;  St.  Jerome's  lion,  being  introduced  to  the  monastery 
(with  resultant  e£feet  on  the  minds  of  the  brethren)  ;  and  St. 
Jerome's  dog,  watching  his  master  translating  the  Bible,  with 
highest  complacency  of  approval. 

And  of  St.  Theodore  himself  you  may  be  glad  to  know  that 
he  was  a  very  historical  and  substantial  saint  as  late  as  the 
fifteenth  century,  for  in  the  inventory  of  the  goods  and  chat- 
tels of  his  scuola,  made  by  order  of  its  master  (Gastoldo),  and 
the  companions,  in  the  year  1450,  the  first  article  is  the  body 
of  St.  Theodore,  with  the  bed  it  lies  on,  covered  by  a  coverlid 
of  "pafio  di  grano  di  seta,  brocado  de  oro  fino."  So  late  as 
the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century  (certified  by  the  inventario 
fatto  a  di  XXX.  de  Novembrio  MCCCCL.  per.  Sr  nanni  di 


S7\  ,/.M..7's    or    •////;   DPJEP  STREAM.  25 

piero  1'  It  .  1  1  V  I  (  ',  (^  suoi  campagni,  de  tutte  reli- 
quie  e  arnesi  e  beni,  se  trova  in  questa  horn  presente  in  la 
nostra  scuola),  hero  Inv  tliis  trnisnrrv  flo-^r  to  tlir  f»n>^:^>'P>Y'vil 
lieai^  of  Venice. 

Oh,  good  reader,  who  hast  ceased  to  count  the  Dead  bones 
of  men  for  thy  treasure,  hast  thou  then  thy  Dead  laid  up  in 
the  hands  of  the  Living  God  ? 


CHAPTEK  in. 

ST.    JAMES    OF    THE    DEEP    STREAM. 

Twice  one  is  two,  and  twice  two  is  four  ;  but  twice  one  is 
not  three,  and  twice  two  is  not  six,  whatever  Shylock  may 
wish,  or  say,  in  the  matter.  In  wholesome  memory  of  which 
arithmetical,  and  (probably)  eternal,  fact,  and  in  loyal  defi- 
ance of  Shylock  and  his  knife,  I  write  down  for  you  these  fig- 
ures, large  and  plain  : 

1.  2.  4. 

Also  in  this  swiftly  progressive  ratio,  the  figures  may  ex- 
press what  modern  philosophy  considei*s  the  rate  of  progress 
of  Venice,  fi^om  her  days  of  religion,  and  golden  ducats,  to  her 
days  of  infidelity,  and  paper  notes. 

Read  them  backwards,  then,  sublime  modem  philosopher ; 
and  they  will  give  you  the  date  of  the  birth  of  that  foolish 
Venice  of  old  time,  on  her  narrow  island. 

4  2.  1. 

In  that  year,  and  on  the  very  day — (little  foolish  Venice 
used  to  say,  when  she  was  a  very  child), — in  which,  once 
upon  a  time,  the  world  was  made ;  and,  once  upon  another 
time — the  Ave  Maria  first  said, — the  first  stone  of  Venice  was 
laid  on  the  sea  sand,  in  the  name  of  St.  James  the  fisher. 

I  think  you  had  better  go  and  see  ^^ith  your  own  eyes, — 
tread  with  your  own  foot, — the  spot  of  her  nativity  :  so  much 


26  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

of  a  spring  day  as  the  task  will  take,  cannot  often  be  more 
profitably  spent,  nor  more  affectionately  towards  God  and 
man,  if  indeed  you  love  either  of  them. 

So,  from  the  Grand  Hotel, — or  the  Swiss  Pension — or  the 
duplicate  Danieli  with  the  drawbridge, — or  wherever  else 
among  the  palaces  of  resuscitated  Venice  you  abide,  congrat- 
ulatory modern  ambassador  to  the  Venetian  Senate, — please, 
to-day,  walk  through  the  Merceria,  and  through  the  Square 
of  St.  Bartholomew,  where  is  the  little  octagon  turret-chapel 
in  the  centre,  for  sale  of  news  :  and  cross  the  Eialto — not  in 
the  middle  of  it,  but  on  the  right  hand  side,  crossing  from  St. 
Mark's.  You  will  probably  find  it  very  dirty, — it  may  be,  in- 
decently dirty, — that  is  modern  progress,  and  Mr.  Buckle's 
civilization  ;  rejoice  in  it  with  a  thankful  heart,  and  stay  in  it 
placidly,  after  crossing  the  height  of  the  bridge,  when  you 
come  down  just  on  a  level  with  the  capitals  of  the  first  story 
of  the  black  and  white,  all  but  ruined.  Palace  of  the  Camer- 
lenghi ;  Treasurers  of  Venice,  built  for  them  when  she  began 
to  feel  anxious  about  her  accounts.  "  Black  and  white,"  I  call 
it,  because  the  dark  lichens  of  age  are  yet  on  its  marble — or, 
at  least,  were,  in  the  winter  of  '76-'77  ;  it  may  be,  even  before 
these  pages  get  printed,  it  will  be  scraped  and  regilt — or 
pulled  down,  to  make  a  railroad  station  at  the  Bialto. 

Here  standing,  if  with  good  eyes,  or  a  good  opera  glass, 
you  look  back,  up  to  the  highest  story  of  the  blank  and  ugly 
building  on  the  side  of  the  canal  3^ou  have  just  crossed  from, 
— you  will  see  between  two  of  its  higher  windows,  the  re- 
mains of  a  fresco  of  a  female  figure.  It  is,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  last  vestige  of  the  noble  fresco  painting  of  Venice  on  her 
outside  walls  ; — Giorgione's, — no  less, — when  Titian  and  he 
were  house-painters, — the  Sea-Queen  so  ranking  them,  for 
her  pomp,  in  her  proud  days.  Of  this,  and  of  the  black  and 
white  palace,  we  will  talk  another  day.  I  only  asked  you  to 
look  at  the  fresco  just  now,  because  therein  is  seen  the  end  of 
my  Venice, —  the  Venice  I  have  to  tell  you  of.  Yours,  of  the 
Grand  Hotels  and  the  Peninsular  steamers,  you  may  write  the 
history  of,  for  yourself. 

Therein, — as  it  fades  away — ends  the  Venice  of  St.  Mark's 


>S7:  jamj:<  ^f  TiIi:   ■-'■'"  stream.  2>i 

Tk  s{.  JUit  where  she  was  bom,  you  may  now  go  quite  down 
the  steps  to  see.  Down,  and  through  among  the  fruit-stalls 
into  the  httle  square  on  the  right  ;  then  turning  back,  the 
low  portico  is  in  front  of  you — not  of  the  ancient  church  in- 
deed, but  of  a  fifteenth  century  one — variously  translated,  in 
succeeding  times,  into  such  small  picturesqueness  of  stage 
effect  as  it  yet  possesses  ;  escaping,  by  God's  grace,  however, 
the  fire  which  destroyed  all  the  other  buildings  of  ancient 
Venice,  round  her  Rialto  square,  in  1513.* 

Some  hundred  or  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  that, 
Venice  had  begun  to  suspect  the  bodies  of  saints  to  be  a  poor 
property  ;  carrion,  in  fact, — and  not  even  exchangeable  cai-- 
rion.  Living  flesh  might  be  bought  instead, — perhaps  of 
prettier  aspect.  So,  as  I  said,  for  a  hundred  years  or  so,  she 
had  brought  home  no  relics, — but  set  her  mind  on  trade- 
profits,  and  other  practical  matters ;  tending  to  the  achieve- 
ment of  wealth,  and  its  comforts,  and  dignities.  The  cuii- 
ous  result  being,  that  at  that  particular  moment,  when  the 
fire  devoured  her  merchants'  square,  centre  of  the  then  mer- 
cantile world — she  happened  to  have  no  money  in  her  pocket 
t  o  build  it  again  with  ! 

Nor  were  any  of  her  old  methods  of  business  again  to  be 
resorted  to.  Her  soldiers  were  now  foreign  mercenaries,  and 
had  to  be  paid  before  they  would  fight  ;  and  prayers,  she  had 
found  out  long  before  our  English  wiseacre  apothecaries'  ap- 
prentices, were  of  no  use  to  get  either  money,  or  new  houses 
with,  at  a  pinch  Hke  this.  And  there  was  really  nothing  for 
;t  but  doing  the  thing  cheap, — since  it  had  to  be  done.  Fra 
( liocondo  of  Verona  offered  her  a  fair  design  ;  but  the  city 
could  not  afford  it.  Had  to  take  Scarpagnino's  make-shift 
instead  ;  and  with  his  help,  and  Sansovino's,  between  1520 
ind  1550,  she  just  managed  to  botch  up — what  you  see  sur- 
•  >und  the  square,  of  architectural  stateliness  for  her  mercan- 
tile  home.     Discovery  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  main 


'  Many  chronicles  speak  of  it  as  burned  ;  but  the  authoritative  inscrip- 
tion of  lOOl  speaks  of  it  as  *  consumed  by  age,'  and  is  therefor. 
.  ive  on  this  point 


2S  ST.  MARK'S  RESI. 

cause  of  these  sorrowful  circumstances  of  hers, — observe  sa- 
gacious historians. 

At  all  events,  I  have  no  doubt  the  walls  were  painted  red, 
with  some  medalHons,  or  other  cheap  decoration,  under  the 
cornices,  enough  to  make  the  little  square  look  comfortable. 
Whitewashed  and  squalid  now — it  may  be  left,  for  this  time, 
without  more  note  of  it,  as  we  turn  to  the  little  church.^ 

Your  Murray  tells  you  it  was  built  "  in  its  present  form  " 
in  1194,  and  "rebuilt  in  1531,  but  precisely  in  the  old  form," 
and  that  it  "  has  a  fine  brick  campanile."  The  fine  brick  cam- 
panile, visible,  if  you  look  behind  you,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  belongs  to  the  church  of  St.  John  Elemosinario.  And 
the  statement  that  the  church  was  "rebuilt  in  precisely  the 
old  form "  must  also  be  received  with  allowances.  For  the 
"  campanile  "  here,  is  in  the  most  orthodox  English  Jacobite 
style  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  portico  is  Venetian  fif- 
teenth, the  walls  are  in  no  style  at  all,  and  the  little  Ma- 
donna inserted  in  the  middle  of  them  is  an  exquisitely  fin- 
ished piece  of  the  finest  work  of  1320  to  1350. 

And,  alas,  the  church  is  not  only  quite  other  in  form,  but 
even  other  in  pZace,  than  it  was  in  the  fifth  century,  having 
been  moved  like  a  bale  of  goods,  and  with  apparently  as  little 
difficulty  as  scruple,  in  1322,  on  a  report  of  the  Salt  Commis- 
sioners about  the  crowding  of  shops  round  it.  And,  in  sum, 
of  particulars  of  authentically  certified  vicissitudes,  the  little 
church  has  gone  through  these  following — how  many  more 
than  these,  one  cannot  say — but  these  at  least  (see  Appendix 

m.): 

I.  Founded  traditionally  in  421  (serious  doubts  whether  on 
Friday  or  Saturday,  involving  others  about  the  year  itself.) 
The  tradition  is  all  we  need  care  for. 

II.  Eebuilt,  and  adorned  with  Greek  mosaic  work  by  the 
Doge  Domenico  Selvo,  in  1073  ;  the  Doge  having  married  a 
Greek  wife,  and  liking  pretty  things.  Of  this  husband  and 
wife  you  shall  hear  more,  anon. 

^  Do  not,  if  you  will  trust  me,  at  tliis  time  let  your  guide  take  yoii  to 
look  at  the  Gobbo  di  Rialto,  or  otherwise  interfere  with  your  immediate 
business. 


IRbJAM.  ^') 

HL  Eetouchecl,  and  made  bright  again,  getting  also  its  du* 
share  of  the  spoil  of  Byzantium  sent  home  by  Henry  Dau- 
dolo,  1174. 

IV.  Dressed  up  iigain,  and  out  of  the  buyers*  am  1 
sellers'  way,  in  1322. 

V.  *  In stau rated  '  into  a  more  splendid  church  (dicto  temj)! 
in  splendidiorera  ecclesiam  instaurato)  by  the  elected  pleb.i 
ims,  Natalis  Regia,  desirous  of  having  the  cliurcli  devoted  tr> 
hia  honor  instead  of  St.  James's,  1531. 

VL  Lifted  up  (and  most  likely  iherciore  iirst  much  pulled 
down),  to  keep  the  water  from  coming  into  it,  in  IGOl,  when 
the  double  arched  camp.uiile  was  built,  and  the  thing  finally 
patched  together  in  the  present  form.     Doubtless,  soon,  by 
farther  'progresso'  to  become  a  provision,  or,  perhaps,  a  p; 
troleum- store,  Venice  liaving  no  more  need  of  temples;  and 
being,  as  far  as  I  can  observe,  ashamed  of  having  so  many. 
overshadowing  her  buyers  and  sellers.     Better  rend  the  veil 
in  twain  forever,  if  convenient  storeshops  may  be  formed  in 
side. 

These,  then,  being  authentic  epochs  of  change,  you  may 
decipher  at  ease  the  writing  of  each  of  them, — what  is  left  of 
it  Tiie  camptuiile  with  the  ugly  head  in  the  centre  of  it  is 
your  final  Art  result,  1601.  The  portico  in  front  of  you  is 
NataHs  Regia's  *  instauration  '  of  the  church  as  it  stood  after 
1322,  retaining  the  wooden  simplicities  of  bracket  above  the 
pillars  of  the  early  loggia  ;  the  Madonn^i,  as  I  said,  is  a  piece 
of  the  1320  to  1350  work  ;  and  of  earlier  is  no  vestige  here. 
But  if  you  will  walk  twenty  steps  round  the  church,  at  tli 
back  of  it,  on  the  low  gable,  you  will  see  an  inscription  in 
firmly  graven  long  Roman  letters,  under  a  cross,  similarly  in- 
scribed- 

Tkat  is  a  vestige  of  the  eleventh  century  church  ;  nay,  moi 
than  vestige,  the  Voice  of  it — Sibylline, — left  when  its  bod 
?  rl  died. 

Wliich  I  will  ask  you  to  hear,  iu  a  little  while.     But  fir- 
you  shall  see  also  a  few  of  the  true  stones?  oi  the  older  Tempi 
Enter  it  now  ;  and   reverently  ;    for  though  at  first,  amid- 
wretched  whitewash  and  stucco,  you  will  scai'cely  see  the  tru 


so  ST.  MARK'S  REST, 

marble,  those  six  pillars  and  their  capitals  are  3^et  actual  rem- 
nants and  material  marble  of  the  venerable  church  ;  probably 
once  extending  into  more  ai'ches  in  the  nave  ;  but  this  tran- 
sept ceihng  of  wagon  vault,  with  the  pillars  that  carry  it,  is 
true  remnant  of  a  mediaeval  church,  and,  in  all  likelihood, 
true  image  of  the  earliest  of  all — of  the  iii-st  standard  of  Ven- 
ice, planted,  under  which  to  abide ;  the  Cross,  engraven  on 
the  sands  thus  ui  relief,  with  two  little  pieces  of  Roman  vault- 
ing, set  cross  wise  ; — ^your  modem  engineers  will  soon  make 
as  large,  in  portable  brickwork,  for  London  drains,  admii-able, 
worshipful,  for  the  salvation  of  London  mankind  : — here  art- 
lessly rounded,  and  with  small  cupola  above  the  crossing. 

Thus  slie  set  her  sign  upon  the  shore  ;  some  knot  of  gelat- 
inous seaweed  there  checking  the  current  of  the  'Deep 
Stream,'  which  sweeps  round,  as  you  see,  in  that  sigma  of 
canal,  as  the  Wharf e  round  the  shingly  bank  of  Bolton  Abbey, 
— a  notablest  Crook  of  Lune,  this  ;  and  Castrum,  here,  on 
sands  that  will  abide. 

It  is  strange  how  seldom  rivers  have  been  named  from  their 
depth.  Mostly  they  take  at  once  some  dear,  companionable 
name,  and  become  gods,  or  at  least  living  creatures,  to  their 
refreshed  people  ;  if  not  thus  Pagan-named,  they  are  noted 
by  their  color,  or  theii*  purity, — White  River,  Black  River, 
Rio  Verde,  Aqua  Dolce,  Fiume  di  Latte  ;  but  scarcely  ever, 
'  Deep  River.' 

And  this  Venetian  slow-pacing  water,  not  so  much  as  a 
river,  or  any  thing  like  one ;  but  a  rivulet,  *  fiumicello,'  only, 
rising  in  those  low  mounds  of  volcanic  hill  to  the  west. 
"  *  Rialto,'  '  Rialtum,*  '  P?*ealtum '  "  (another  idea  getting  con- 
fused with  the  first),  "dal  fiumicello  di  egual  nome  che, 
scendendo  dei  colli  Euganei  gettavasi  nel  Brenta,  con  esso 
scorrendo  lungo  quelle  isole  dette  appunto  Realtine."  ^  The 
serpentine  depth,  consistent  always  among  consistent  shallow, 
being  here  vital ;  and  the  conception  of  it  partly  mingled  with 
that  of  the  power  of  the  open  sea — the  infinite  '  Altum  ; ' 
sought  by  the  sacred  water,  as  in  the  di^eam  of  Eneas,  "lacu 

*  B-omanin. 


AMES  OF  THE  DEEP  STREAM.  SI 

fluvius  sc  condidit  alto."  Hence  the  timted  word  takes,  in 
declining  Latin,  the  shorter  form,  JiidXtum^ — properly,  in  tli( 
scholarship  of  the  State-documents,  *Rivoalt?/s.'  So  also, 
throughout  Yenice,  the  Latin  Eivus  softens  into  Rio  ;  th< 
Latin  Ripa  into  Eiva,  in  the  time  when  you  had  the  running 
"water — not  'canals,*  but  running  brooks  of  sea, — 'lympha 
fugax,' — trembling  in  eddies,  between,  not  quays,  but  bank- 
of  pasture  land  ;  soft  *  campi,'  of  which,  in  St.  Margaret's 
field,  I  have  but  this  autumn  seen  the  last  worn  vestige  trodden 
away ;  and  yesterday,  Feb.  26th,  in  the  morning,  a  little  tree 
that  was  pleasant  to  me  taken  up  from  before  the  door,  be- 
cause it  had  Leaved  the  pavement  an  inch  or  two  out  of 
square  ;  also  beside  the  Academy,  a  little  overhanging  moment- 
ary shade  of  boughs  iie^vn  away,  '  to  make  the  street  *'  bello,"  * 
said  the  axe-bearer.  'What,'  I  asked,  *  will  it  be  prettier  in 
summer  without  its  trees?'  *Non  x'e  bello  il  verde,'  he  an- 
swered.* True  oracle,  though  he  knew  not  what  he  said  ; 
voice  of  the  modem  Church  of  Venice  ranking  herself  under 
the  black  standard  of  the  jAi. 

I  said  you  should  hear  the  oracle  of  her  ancient  Church  in 
a  little  while  ;  but  3'ou  must  know  why,  and  to  whom  it  was 
spoken,  first, — and  we  must  leave  the  Rial  to  for  to-day.  Look, 
as  you  recross  its  bridge,  westward,  along  the  broad-flowiii 
stream  ;  and  come  here  also,  this  evening,  if  the  day  sets  cahn, 
for  then  the  waves  of  it  from  the  Rialto  island  to  the  Ca  Fos- 
cari,  glow  like  an  Eastern  tapestry  in  soft-flomng  crimson, 
frotlcd  witli  <jo\(\  :  and  beside  them,  amidst  the   tumult  of 

i  ,,.,.^.i  ,*,  .i.c  j..>v,v^  ^M  ,.|,io  of  Edinburgh  liavo  tlic  saiui^  i.u^l^  ,  .aid 
rejoice  proudly  at  having  got  an  asplialt  esplanade  at  the  end  of  Prince's 
Street,  instead  of  cabbage  stillers.  Alas!  my  Scottish  friends;  all  that 
Prince's  Street  of  youra  has  not  so  much  beauty  in  it  as  a  single  cabbage- 
stalk,  if  you  had  eyes  in  your  heads, — rather  the  extreme  reverse  of 
beauty  ;  and  there  is  not  one  of  the  lassies  who  now,  stagger  up  and 
down  the  burning  marie  in  high-heeled  boots  and  French  bonnets,  who 
wouhl  not  look  a  thouRand-fold  prettier,  and  feel,  there's  no  counting 
how  much  nobler,  bare-headed  but  for  the  snood,  and  bare-foot  on  oli 
lasliioned  grass  by  the  Nor'  loch  side,  bringing  home  from  mark»  t 
basket  on  arm,  pea^'  for  papa's  dinner,  and  a  bunch  of  cherries  for 
tab/. 


32  tvr,  MARK'S  RE^1\ 

squalid  ruin,  remember  the  words  that  are  IJie  '  burden  of 
Venice/  as  of  Tyre  : — 

*'  Be  still,  ye  inhabitants  of  the  Isle.  Thou  whom  the  mer- 
chants of  Zidon,  that  pass  over  the  sea,  have  replenished.  By 
great  waters,  the  seed  of  Silior,  the  harvest  of  the  river,  is  her 
revenue  :  and  she  is  a  mart  of  nations." 


CHAPTER  lY. 

ST.    THEODORE   THE   CHAIR-SELUHR. 


The  history  of  Venice  divides  itself,  with  more  sharpne^ 
than  any  other  I  have  read,  into  periods  of  distinct  tendency 
and  character  ;  marked,  in  their  ti*ansition,  by  phenomena  no 
less  definite  than  those  of  the  putting  forth  the  leaves,  or 
setting  of  the  fruit, «in  a  plant ; — and  as  definitely  connected 
by  one  vitally  progressive  organization^  of  which  the  energy 
must  be  studied  in  its  constancy,  while  its  results  are  classed 
in  grouped  system. 

If  we  rightly  tiuce  the  order,  and  estimate  the  duration,  of 
such  periods^  we  understand  the  life,  whether  of  an  organized 
being  or  a  state.  But  not  to  know  the  time  when  the  seed  is 
ripe,  or  the  soul  mature,  is  to  misunderstand  the  total  creat- 
ure. 

In  the  history  of  gi-eat  multitudes,  these  changes  of  their 
spirit,  and  regenerations  (for  they  are  nothing  less)  of  their 
physical  power,  take  place  through  so  subtle  gradations  of 
declining  and  dawning  thought,  that  the  effort  to  distinguish 
them  seems  arbitrary.  Mice  separating  the  belts  of  a  rainbow  s 
color  by  firmly  drawn  lines.  But,  at  Venice,  the  lines  are 
drawn  for  us  by  her  own  hand  ;  and  the  changes  in  her  tem- 
per are  indicated  by  parallel  modifications  of  her  policy  and 
constitution,  to  which  histoiians  have  always  attributed,  as  to 
efficient  causes,  the  national  fortunes  of  which  they  are  only 
the  sigTis  and  Kmitation. 

In  this  history,  the  reader  will  find  little  importance  at- 


-^^7:   TIIEOBORE   THE  rUAlR-SKLLER.  33 

tached  i  >  external  phenomci  ^  >litical  constitution  ; 

except  as  labels,  or,  it  may  be,  securing  seals,  of  the  state  of 
the  nation's  lieai*t.  They  ai'e  merely  shapes  of  amphora,  art- 
ful and  decorative  indeed  ;  tempting  to  criticism  or  copy  of 
their  form,  usefully  recordant  of  different  ages  of  the  wine, 
and  having  occasionally,  by  the  porousness  or  perfectness  of 
their  clay,  effect  also  on  its  quality.  But  it  is  the  grape-juice 
itself,  and  the  changes  in  it,  not  in  the  forms  of  flask,  that  we 
have  in  reality  to  study. 

Fortunately  also,  the  dates  of  the  great  changes  are  easily 
remembered  ;  they  fall  with  felicitous  precision  at  the  begin- 
ning of  centuries,  and  divide  the  story  of  the  city,  as  the 
pillars  of  her  Byzantine  courts,  the  walls  of  it,  with  syhimetric 
stability. 

.  She  shall  also  tell  you,  as  I  promised,  her  own  story,  in  her 
own  handwriting,  all  through.  Not  a  word  shall  /  have  to^ 
say  in  the  matter ;  or  aught  to  do,  except  to  deepen  the  letters 
for  you  when  they  are  indistinct,  and  sometimes  to  hold 
blank  space  of  her  chart  of  life  to  the  fire  of  your  heart  for  a 
little  while,  until  words,  written  secretly  upon  it,  are  seen ; — 
if,  at  least,  there  is  fire  enough  in  your  own  heart  to  heat 
them. 

And  first,  therefore,  I  must  try  what  power  of  reading  you 
have,  when  the  letters  are  quite  clear.  We  will  take  to-day, 
so  please  you,  the  same  walk  we  did  yesterday  ;  but  looking 
at  other  things,  and  reading  a  wider  lesson. 

As  early  as  you  can  (in  fact,  to  get  the  good  oi  lal^>  ualk, 
you  must  be  up  wdth  the  sun),  any  bright  morning,  when  the 
streets  are  quiet,  come  with  me  to  the  front  of  St.  Mark's,  ' 
begin  our  lesson  there. 

You  see  that  between  the  arches  of  its  vaults,  there 
oblong  i)anels  of  bas-relief. 

Two  of  these  are  the  earliest  pieces  of  real  Venetian  wor' 
know  of,  to  show  you  ;  but  before  beginning  witli 
must  see  a  piece  done  by  her  Greek  masters. 

Go  round  therefore  to  the  side  farthest  from  the  sea, 
in  the  first  broad   arch,'  you  will  see  a  panel  of  like   shape, 
set  horizontally  ;  the   sculpture  of  which   represents   twelve 
6 


di:  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

slieep,  six  on  one  side,  six  on  tlie  other,  of  a  throne :  on  which 
throne  is  set  a  cross ;  and  on  the  top  of  the  cross  a  circle  ; 
and  in  the  circle,  a  httle  ca;prioling  creature. 

And  outside  of  all,  are  two  palm  trees,  one  on  each  side  ; 
and  under  each  palm  tree,  two  baskets  of  dates  ;  and  over  the 
twelve  sheep,  is  written  in  delicate  Greek  letters,  "  The  holy 
A2:>ostles  ;"  and  over  the  little  caprioling  creature,  "  The  Lamb." 

Take  your  glass  and  study  the  carving  of  this  bas-relief  in- 
tently. It  is  full  of  sweet  care,  subtlety,  tenderness  of  touch, 
and  mind  ;  and  fine  cadence  and  change  of  line  in  the  little 
bowing  heads  and  bending  leaves.  Decorative  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  a  kind  of  stone-stitching,  or  sampler- work,  done  with 
the  innocence  of  a  girl's  heart,  and  in  a  like  unlearned  ful- 
ness. Here  is  a  Christian  man,  bringing  order  and  loveli- 
ness into  the  mere  furrows  of  stone.  Not  by  any  means  as 
learned  as  a  butcher,  in  the  joints  of  lambs ;  nor  as  a  grocer, 
in  baskets  of  dates  ;  nor  as  a  gardener,  in  endogenous  plants  ; 
but  an  artist  to  the  heart's  core  ;  and  no  less  true  a  lover  of 
Christ  and  His  word.  Helj^less,  with  his  childish  art,  to  carve 
Christ,  he  carves  a  cross,  and  caprioling  little  thing  in  a  ring 
at  the  top  of  it.  You  may  try — you — to  carve  Christ,  if  you 
can.  HeljDless  to  conceive  the  Twelve  Apostles,  these  never- 
theless are  sacred  letters  for  the  bearers  of  the  Gospel  of 
Peace. 

Of  such  men  Venice  learned  to  touch  the  stone  ; — to  be- 
come a  Lapieida,  and  f  urrower  of  the  marble  as  well  as  the  sea. 

Now  let  us  go  back  to  that  panel  on  the  left  side  of  the 
central  arch  in  front.  ^ 

This,  you  see,  is  no  more  a  symbolical  sculpture,  but  quite 

^  Generally  note,  wlien  I  say  '  right '  or  *  left '  side  of  a  clmrcli  or 
chapel,  I  mean,  either  as  you  enter,  or  as  3^011  look  to  the  altar.  It  is 
not  safe  to  say  'north  and  south,'  for  Italian  churches  stand  all  round 
the  compass ;  and  besides,  the  phrase  would  be  false  of  lateral  chapels. 
Transej)ts  are  awkward,  because  often  they  have  an  altar  instead  of  an 
entrance  at  their  ends  ;  it  will  be  least  confusing  to  treat  them  always 
as  large  lateral  chapels,  and  place  them  in  the  series  of  such  chapels  as 
the  sides  of  the  nave,  calling  the  sides  right  and  lelt  as  you  look  either 
from  the  nave  into  the  chapels,  or  from  the  nave's  centre  to  the  rose 
window,  or  other  termination  of  transept. 


I  AIR-SELLER.  ^5 

distinctly  pictorial,  and  laboriously  ardent  to  express,  though 
in  very  low  relief,  a  curly-haired  personage,  handsome,  and 
something  like  George  the  Fourth,  dressed  in  richest  Roman 
armor,  and  sitting  in  an  absurd  manner,  more  or  less  tailor- 
fashion,  if  not  cross-legged  himself,  at  least  on  a  conspicu- 
ously cross-legged  piece  of  splendid  furniture  ;  which,  after 
deciphering  the  Chinese,  or  engineer's  isometrical,  perspect  i 
of  it,  you  may  perceive  to  be  only  a  gorgeous  pic-nic  or  draw- 
ing-stool, apparently  of  portable  character,  such  as  are  bought 
(more  for  luxury  than  labor, — for  the  real  working  apparatus 
is  your  tripod)  at  Messrs.  Newman's,  or  Wiusor  and  Newton's. 

Apparently  portable,  I  say  ;  by  no  means  intended  as  such 
by  the  sculptor.  Intended  for  a  most  permanent  and  mag- 
nificent throne  of  state  ;  nothing  less  than  a  derived  form  of 
that  Greek  Thronos,  in  which  you  have  seen  set  the  cross  of 
the  Lamb.  Yes  ;  and  of  the  Tyrian  and  Judsoan  Thronos — 
Solomon's,  which  it  frightened  the  queen  of  Sheba  to  see  him 
sitting  on.  Yes  ;  and  of  the  Egyptian  throne  of  eternal  gran- 
ite, on  which  colossal  Memnon  sits,  melodious  to  morning 
light, — son  of  Aurora.  Yes  ;  and  of  the  throne  of  Isis-Ma- 
donna,  and,  mightier  yet  than  she,  as  we  return  towards  the 
nativity  of  queens  and  kings.  We  must  keep  at  present  to 
our  own  poor  little  modern,  practical  saint — sitting  on  his 
portable  throne  (as  at  the  side  of  the  opera  when  extra  peoj)le 
are  let  in  who  shouldn't  be)  ;  only  seven  hundred  years  old. 
To  this  crossed-legged  apparatus  the  Egyptian  throne  had 
dwindled  down  ;  it  looks  even  as  if  the  saint  who  sits  on  it 
might  begin  to  think  about  getting  up  some  day  or  other. 

All  the  more  when  you  know  who  he  is.  Can  you  read  the 
letters  of  Ijis  name,  written  beside  him  ? — 

SC8  GEORGIVS 

— Mr.  Emerson's  purveyor  of  bacon,  no  less  !  "     And  ho  <l 
look  like  getting  up,  when  you  observe  him  farther. 
sheathing  his  sword,  is  not  he  ? 

'  See  Fors  Clavig-era  of  Febniarv,  1873,  containing  tlie  legends  of 
George.  This,  witli  the  otlier  numbers  of  Fors  referred  to  in  the  t. 
of  '  St.  Mark's  Rest,'  may  be  bought  at  Venice,  together  with  it. 


^^  6'2\  MARK'S  REST. 

No  ;  sheathing  it.  That  was  the  ditiicult  thing  he  had  first 
to  do,  as  you  will  find  on  reading  the  true  legend  of  him, 
which  this  sculi^tor  thoroughly  knew  ;  in  whose  conception  of 
the  saint  one  x^erceives  the  date  of  said  sculptor,  no  less  than 
in  the  stiff  av ork,  so  dimly  yet  perceptive  of  the  ordinary  laws 
of  the  aspect  of  things.  From  the  bas-reliefs  of  the  Parthe- 
non— through  sixteen  hundred  years  of  effort,  and  speech- 
making,  and  fighting — human  intelligence  in  the  Arts  has  ar- 
rived, here  in  Venice,  thus  far.  But  having  got  so  far,  we 
shall  come  to  something  fresh  soon  !  We  have  become  dis- 
tinctly representative  again,  you  see  ;  desiring  to  show,  not  a 
mere  symbol  of  a  living  man,  but  the  man  himself,  as  truly  as 
the  poor  stone-cutter  can  carve  him.  All  bonds  of  tyrannous 
tradition  broken  ; — the  legend  kept,  in  faith  yet ;  but  the 
symbol  become  natural ;  a  real  armed  knight,  the  best  he 
could  form  a  notion  of  ;  curly-haired  and  handsome  ;  and,  his 
also  the  boast  of  Dogberry,  every  thing  handsome  about  him. 
Thus  far  has  Venice  got  in  her  art  schools  of  the  early  thir- 
teenth century.  I  can  date  this  sculpture  to  that  time,  pretty 
closely  ;  earlier,  it  m.ay  be, — not  later  ;  see  afterwards  the 
notes  closing  this  chapter. 

And  now,  if  you  so  please,  we  will  w^alk  under  the  clock- 
tower,  and  dow^n  the  Merceria,  as  straight  as  we  can  go. 
There  is  a  little  crook  to  the  right,  bringing  us  opposite  St. 
Julian's  church  (which,  please,  don't  stop  to  look  at  just  now) ; 
then,  sharply,  to  the  left  again,  and  we  come  to  the  Ponte  de' 
Baratteri, — "Kogue's  Bridge  " — on  which,  as  especially  a 
grateful  bridge  to  English  business-feelings,  let  us  reverently 
pause.  It  has  been  widened  lately,  you  observe, — the  use  of 
such  bridge  being  greatly  increased  in  these  times  ;  and  in  a 
convenient  angle,  out  of  passenger  current  (may  you  find  such 
wayside  withdrawal  in  true  life),  you  may  stop  to  look  back  at 
the  house  immediately  above  the  bridge. 

In  the  wall  of  which  3^ou  will  see  a  horizontal  panel  of  bas- 
relief,  with  two  shields  on  each  side,  bearing  six  fleur-de-lys. 
And  this  you  need  not,  I  suppose,  look  for  letters  on,  to  tell 
you  its  subject.  Here  is  St.  George  indeed  ! — our  own  beloved 
old  sign  of  the  George  and  Dragon,  ail  correct ;  and,  if  you 


kiiuw  ^,  nu  .-,-....  ■  i...„4.iui...,  ::.:i,.-   :..,,  .  :.  Jio  rock,  thrilled 
witness  of  the  figlit.     And  see  what  a  dainty  St.  George,  too  ! 
Here  is  no  mere  tailor's  enthronement.     Eques,  ipso  melior 
Bellerophonti, — how  he  sits  ! — how  he  holds  his  lance  ! — how 
bnghtly  youthful  the  crisp  hair  under  his  light  cap  of  helm, — 
how  deftly  curled  the  fringe  of  his  horse  s  crest, — how  vigorous 
in  disciplined  career  of  accustomed  conquest,  the  two  noblo 
living  creatures  !     This  is  Venetian  fifteenth  century  work  of 
finest  style.     Outside-of-house  work,  of  course  :  we  compare 
at  present  outside  work  only,  panel  mth  panel :  but  here  are 
three  hundred  years  of  art  progress  written  for  you,  in  two 
pages, — from  early  thirteenth  to  late  fifteenth  century  ;  and' 
in  this  little  bas-relief  is  all  to  be  seen,  that  can  be,  of  ( 1 
mentary  principle,  in  the  very  crest  and  pride  of  Veneti 
sculpture, — of  which  note  these  following  points. 

First,  the  aspirations  of  the  front  of  St.  Mark's  have  been 
entirely  achieved,  and  though  the  figure  is  still  symbolical,  it 
is  now  a  symbol  consisting  in  the  most  literal  realization  p 
sible  of  natural  facts.  That  is  the  way,  if  you  care  to  see  it, 
that  a  young  knight  rode,  in  1480,  or  thereabouts.  So,  hij3 
foot  was  set  in  stiiTup, — so  his  body  borne, — so  trim  and  true 
aTid  orderly  every  thing  in  his  harness  and  his  life  :  and  this 
rendered,  observe,  with  the  most  consummate  precision  of 
artistic  touch.  Look  at  the  strap  of  the  stirrap, — at  the  little 
delicatest  line  of  the  spui*, — can  you  think  they  ai'e  stone  ? 
don't  they  look  like  leather  and  steel?  His  flying  mantle, 
is  it  not  silk  more  than  marble  ?  That  is  all  in  the  beautitiu 
doing  of  it :  precision  first  in  exquisite  sight  of  the  thing 
itself,  and  undei*standing  of  the  qualities  and  signs,  whether 
of  silk  or  steel  ;  and  then,  precision  of  touch,  and  cunning  in 
use  of  material,  which  it  had  taken  three  hundred  years  to 
learn.  Think  what  cunning  there  is  in  getting  such  edge  to 
the  marble  as  will  rei:)resent  the  spur  line,  or  strap  leather, 
with  such  solid  under-support  that,  from  J486:  tiir  no^ 
stands  rain  and  frost!  And  for  knowledge  of  fonn,— Iook 
at  the  way  the  little  princess's  foot  comes  out  under  the^ 
drapery  as  she  shiinks  back.     Look  at  it  first  fi*om  the  left 

see    llOW     it     i'^    f.-.-o^l,.  .,-<.. ,;o.l       tl.i     ,^^^      n,..    v.w.l-     :      fl.on      fv.^in      > 


38  ST.  MARICS  REST, 

right,  to  see  the  curve  of  dress  up  the  Hmb  : — think  of  the  dif- 
fevsnce  between  this  and  the  feet  of  poor  St.  George  Sartor  of 
St.  Mark's,  pointed  down  all  their  length.  Finally,  see  how 
studious  the  whole  thing  is  of  beauty  in  every  part, — how  it 
expects  you  also  to  be  studious.  Trace  the  rich  tresses  of 
the  princess's  hair,  wrought  where  the  figure  melts  into 
shadow  ; — the  sharp  edges  of  the  dragon's  mail,  slipping  over 
each  other  as  he  wrings  neck  and  coils  tail  ; — nay,  what  dec- 
orative ordering  and  symmetry  is  even  in  the  roughness  of  the 
ground  and  rock  !  And  lastly,  see  how  the  whole  piece  of 
work,  to  the  simplest  frame  of  it,  must  be  by  the  sculptor's 
own  hand  :  see  how  he  breaks  the  line  of  his  panel  moulding 
with  the  princess's  hair,  with  St.  George's  helmet,  with  the 
rough  ground  itself  at  the  base  ;— the  entire  tablet  varied  to 
its  utmost  edge,  dehghted  in  and  ennobled  to  its  extreme 
limit  of  substance. 

Here,  then,  as  I  said,  is  the  top  of  Venetian  sculpture-art. 
Was  there  no  going  beyond  this,  think  you  ? 

Assuredly,  much  beyond  this  the  Venetian  could  have  gone, 
had  he  gone  straight  forward.  But  at  this  point  he  became 
perverse,  and  there  is  one  sign  of  evil  in  this  piece,  which  you 
must  carefully  discern. 

In  the  two  earlier  sculptures,  of  the  sheep,  and  the  throned 
SL  George,  the  artist  never  meant  to  say  that  twelve  sheep 
ever  stood  in  two  such  rows,  and  were  the  twelve  apostles  ; 
nor  that  St.  George  ever  sat  in  that  manner  in  a  splendid 
chair.  But  he  entirely  believed  in  the  facts  of  the  Hves  of 
the  apostles  and  saints,  symbolized  by  such  figuring. 

But  the  fifteenth  century  sculptor  does,  partly,  mean  to  as- 
sert that  St.  George  did  in  that  manner  kill  a  dragon  :  does 
not  clearly  know  whether  he  did  or  not  ;  does  not  care  very 
nmch  whether  he  did  or  not ;— thinks  it  will  be  very  nice  if, 
at  any  rate,  people  believed  that  he  did  ;— but  is  more  bent, 
in  the  heart  of  him,  on  making  a  pretty  bas-relief  than  on  any 
thing  else. 

Half  way  to  infidelity,  the  fine  gentleman  is,  with  all  his 
dainty  chiselling.  We  will  see,  on  those  terms,  what,  in 
another  century,  this  fine  chisehing  conies  to. 


Mli-SELLEU.  39 

So  now  walk  CD,  down  the  Merceria  di  Sau  Salvador.  Pres- 
ently, if  it  is  morning,  and  the  sky  clear,  you  will  see,  at  the 
end  of  the  narrow  little  street,  the  brick  apse  of  St.  Saviotir's, 
^varm  against  the  blue  ;  and,  if  you  stand  close  to  the  right 
solemn  piece  of  old  Venetian  wall  and  window  on  the  opi* 
site  side  of  the  calle,  which  you  might  pass  under  tweii 
times  without  seeing,  if  set  on  the  study  of  shops  only.     Tli 
you  must  turn  to  the  right ;  perforce, — to  the  left  again  ;  and 
now  to  the  left,  once  more  ;  and  you  are  in  the  little  piazza  of 
St.  Salvador,  with  a  building  in  front  of  you,  now  occupi< 
as  a  furniture  store,  which  you  will  please  look  at  witli  r'^^ 
tion. 

It  reminds  you  of  many  things  at  home,  I  suppose  ? — has  a 
respectable,  old-fashioned,  city-of-London  look  about  it ; — 
something  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  of  Temple TBar,  of  St.  Paul 
of  Charles  the  Second  and  the  Constitution,  and  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  Mr.  Bumble  ?  Truly  English,  in  many  respects, 
this  solidly  rich  front  of  Ionic  pillars,  with  the  four  angels  on 
the  top,  rapturously  directing  your  attention,  by  the  graco- 
fuUest  gesticulation,  to  the  higher  figure  in  the  centre  ! 

You  have  advanced  another  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and  are 
in  mid  seventeenth  century.     Here  is  the  '  Progresso '  of  Ven- 
ice, exhibited  to  you,  in  consequence  of  her  wealth,  and  g 
life,  and  advance  in  aniitomical  and  other  sciences. 

Of  which,  note  first,  the  display  of  her  knowledge  of  angelic 
anatomy.  Sabra,  on  the  rock,  just  showed  her  foot  beneath 
her  robe,  and  that  only  because  she  was  drawing  back,  fiight- 
ened  ;  but,  here,  every  angel  has  his  petticoats  cut  up  to  his 
1  highs  ;  he  is  not  sufficiently  sacred  or  sublime  unless  you  see 
his  legs  so  high. 

Secondly,  you   see  how  expressive  are   their   attitudes, — 
**  What  a  wonderful  personage  is  this  we  have  got  in  the  mi  ■ 
die  of  us  !  " 

That  is  Raphaelesque  art  of  the  finest.     Raphael,  by  this 
time,   had  taught  the  connoisseurs  of  Europe  that  wheneve'- 
you  admire  anybody,  you  open  your  mouth  and  eyes  wid< 
when  you  wish  to  show  him  to  somebody   else  you  point  aL 
him  vigorously  with  one  arm,  and  wave  the  somebody  else 


40  ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 

on  v/ith  the  other  ;  when  you  have  nothing  to  do  of  that  sort, 
you  stand  on  one  leg  and  hold  up  the  other  in  a  graceful  line  ; 
these  are  the  methods  of  true  dramatic  expression.  Your 
drapery,  meanwhile,  is  to  be  arranged  in  "  sublime  masses," 
and  is  not  to  be  suggestive  of  any  ^^articular  stuff ! 

If  you  study  the  drapery  of  these  four  angels  thoroughly, 
you  can  scarcely  fail  of  knowing,  henceforward,  what  a  bad 
drapery  is,  to  the  end  of  time.  Here  is  drapery  supremely, 
exquisitely  bad  ;  it  is  impossible,  by  any  contrivance,  to  get 
it  worse.  Merely  clumsy,  ill-cut  clothing,  you  may  see  any 
day  ;  but  there  is  skill  enough  in  this  to  make  it  exemplarily 
execrable.  That  flabby  flutter,  Avrinkled  swelling,  and  puffed 
pomp  of  infinite  disorder  ; — the  only  action  of  it,  being  blown 
up,  and  away  ;  the  only  calm  of  it,  collapse  ; — the  resolution  of 
every  miserable  fold  not  to  fall,  if  it  can  help  it,  into  any  nat- 
ural line, — the  running  of  every  lump  of  it  into  the  next,  as 
dough  sticks  to  dough — remaining,  not  less,  evermore  inca- 
]3able  of  any  harmony  or  following  of  each  other's  lead  or  way  ; 
— and  the  total  rejection  of  all  notion  of  beauty  or  use  in  the 
staff  itself.  It  is  stuff  without  thickness,  without  fineness, 
without  warmth,  without  coolness,  without  lustre,  without 
texture  ;  not  silk, — not  Imen, — not  woollen  ; — something  that 
wrings,  and  wrinkles,  and  gets  between  legs, — that  is  all. 
"Worse  drapery  than  this,  you  cannot  see  in  mortal  investiture. 

Nor  worse  ivant  of  drapery,  neither — for  the  legs  are  as  un- 
graceful as  the  robes  that  discover  them  ;  and  the  breast  of 
the  central  figure,  whom  all  the  angels  admire,  is  packed 
under  its  corslet  like  a  hamper  of  tomato  apples. 

To  this  type  the  Venetians  have  now  brought  their  symbol 
of  divine  life  in  man.  For  this  is  also — St.  Theodore  1  And 
the  respectable  building  below,  in  the  Bumble  style,  is  the 
last  effort  of  his  school  of  Venetian  gentlemen  to  house  them- 
selves respectably.  With  Ionic  capitals,  bare-legged  angels, 
and  the  Dragon,  now  square-headed  and  blunt-nosed,  they 
thus  contrive  their  last  club-house,  and  prepare,  for  resusci- 
tated Italy,  in  continued  '  Pi'ogresso,'  a  stately  furniture  store. 
Here  you  may  buy  cruciform  stools,  indeed  !  and  patent  oil- 
cloths, and  other  supports  of  your  Venetian  worshipful  dig- 


ST.  THE  on  ORE  THE  CHAIR-SELLER.  41 

iiity,  to  heart's  content  Here  is  your  God's  Gift  to  the  nine- 
teenth century.  "  Doposito  mobili  nazionali  ed  esteri ; 
quadri ;  libri  autichi  e  modemi,  ed  oggetti  diversi-" 

Nevertheless,  through  all  this  decline  in  power  and  idea, 
there  is  3'et,  let  us  note  finally,  some  wreck  of  Christian  in- 
tention, some  feeble  coloiiug  of  Christian  faith.  A  saint  is 
still  held  to  be  an  admirable  person  ;  he  is  practically  still  the 
patron  of  your  fashionable  club-house,  where  you  meet  to 
offer  him  periodical  prayer  and  alms.  This  architecture  is, 
seriously,  the  best  you  can  think  of ;  those  angels  are  hand- 
some, according  to  your  notions  of  personality  ;  their  attitudes 
really  are  such  as  you  suppose  to  be  indicative  of  celestial 
rapture, — theii;  features,  of  celestial  disposition. 

We  will  see  what  change  another  fifty  years  will  bring 
about  in  these  faded  feelings  of  Venetian  soul. 

The  little  calle  on  3^our  right,  as  you  front  St,  Theodore, 
will  bring  you  straight  to  the  quay  below  the  Rial  to,  where 
your  gondola  shall  be  waiting,  to  take  you  as  far  as  the  bridge 
over  the  Cannareggio  under  the  Palazzo  Labia.  Stay  your 
gondola  before  passing  under  it,  and  look  carefully  at  the 
sculptured  ornaments  of  the  arch,  and  then  at  the  correspond- 
ent ones  on  the  other  side. 

In  these  you  see  the  last  manner  of  sculpture,  executed  1 
Venetian  artists,  according  to  the  mind  of  Venice,  for  her 
own  pride  and  pleasure.  Much  she  has  done  since,  of  art- 
work, to  sell  to  strangers,  executed  as  she  thinks  will  please 
the  stranger  best.  But  of  art  produced  for  her  own  joy  and 
in  her  own  honor,  tliis  is  a  chosen  example  of  the  last ! 

Not  representing  saintly  persons,  you  see  ;  nor  angels  in 
attitudes  of  admiration.  Quite  other  personages  than  angelic, 
and  with  expressions  of  any  thing  rather  than  affection  or  i\ 
spect  for  aught  of  good,  in  earth  or  heaven.  Such  were  the 
last  imaginations  of  her  polluted  heart,  before  death.  She 
had  it  no  more  in  her  |x>wer  to  conceive  any  other.  **  Behold 
thy  last  gods," — the  Fates  connH'l  Imr  thus  to  gaze  n^^(^  t^^t- 
isli. 

This  last  stage  of  her  .  intellectuai  death  precedes  her  p'  - 
iitical  one  by  about  a  century  ;  duiing  the  last  half  of  which, 


42  JST.  MA  HE'S  REST, 

however,  she  did  little  more  than  lay  foundations  of  walls 
which  she  could  not  complete.  Yirtually,  we  may  close  her 
national  history  with  the  seventeenth  centuiy  ;  we  shall  not 
ourselves  follow  it  even  so  far. 

I  have  shown  you,  to-day,  pieces  of  her  art- work  by  which 
you  may  easily  remember  its  cardmal  divisions. 

You  saw  first  the  work  of  her  Greek  masters,  under  whom 
she  learned  both  her  faith  and  art. 

Secondly,  the  beginning  of  her  own  childish  efforts,  in  the 
St.  George  enthroned. 

Thirdly,  the  culmination  of  her  skill  in  the  St.  George  com- 
batant. 

Fourthly,  the  languor  of  her  faith  and  art  power,  under  the 
advance  of  her  luxury,  in  the  hypocrisy  of  St.  Theodore's 
Scuola,  now  a  furniture  warehouse. 

Lastly,  her  dotage  before  shameful  death. 

In  the  next  chapter,  I  will  mark,  by  their  natural  limits,  the 
epochs  of  her  political  history,  which  correspond  to  these  con- 
ditions of  her  knowledge,  hope,  and  imagination. 

But  as  you  return  home,  and  again  pass  before  the  porches 
of  St.  Mark's,  I  may  as  well  say  at  once  what  I  can  of  these 
six  bas-reliefs  between  them. 

On  the  sides  of  the  great  central  arch  are  St.  George  and 
St.  Demetrius,  so  inscribed  in  Latin.  Between  the  next  lat- 
eral porches,  the  Virgin  and  Archangel  Gabriel,  so  inscnbed, 
— the  Archangel  in  Latin,  the  "  Mother  of  God  "  in  Greek. 

And  between  these  and  the  outer  porches,  uninscribed,  two 
of  the  labors  of  Hercules.  I  am  much  doubtful  concerning 
these,  myself, — do  not  know  their  manner  of  sculpture,  nor 
understand  their  meaning.  They  are  fine  work  ;  the  Venetian 
antiquaries  say,  very  early  (sixth  century) ;  types,  it  may  be, 
of  physical  human  power  prevailing  over  wild  nature;  the 
war  of  the  world  before  Christ. 

Then  the  Madonna  and  Angel  of  Annunciation  express  the 
Advent. 

Then  the  two  Christian  "Warrior  Saints  express  the  heart  of 
Venice  in  her  armies. 

There  is  no  doubt,  therefore,  of  the  purposeful  choosing 


T2i:-:  SJLWOW  on  the  dial.  13 

and  i)lacm<^  of  these  bas-reliefa  Where  the  outer  ones  were 
brought  from,  I  know  not ;  the  four  inner  ones,  I  think,  ai ' 
all  contemporary,  and  carved  for  their  place  by  the  Venetian 
scholars  of  the  Greek  schools,  in  late  twelfth  or  early  thii-- 
teenth  century. 

My  special  reason  for  assigning  this  origin  to  them  is  the 
manner  of  the  foliage  under  the  feet  of  the  Gabiiel,  in  whicli 
is  the  origin  of  all  the  early  foliage  in  the  Gothic  of  Venice. 
This  bas-relief,  however,  appears  to  be  by  a  better  master 
than  the  others — perhaps  later  ;  and  is  of  extreme  beauty. 

Of  the  iTider  St  George,  and  successive  sculptures  of  Evan- 
geUsts  on  the  north  side,  I  cannot  yet  speak  with  decision  ; 
nor  would  you,  until  we  have  followed  the  story  of  Venice 
farther,  probably  care  to  hear. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   SHADOW   ON   THE   DIAL. 


The  history  of  Venice,  then,  divides  itself  into  four  quite 
distinct  periods. 

L  The  first,  in  which  the  fugitives  from  many  cities  on  the 
mainland,  gathered  themselves  into  one  nation,  dependent  for 
existence  on  its  labor  upon  the  sea  ;  and  which  develops 
itself,  by  that  labor,  into  a  race  distinct  in  temper  from  all 
the  other  families  of  Christendom.  This  process  of  growth 
and  mental  formation  is  necessarily  a  long  one,  the  result 
being  so  great.  It  takes  roughly,  seven  hundred  years — 
from  the  fifth  to  the  eleventh  century',  both  inclusive.  Accu- 
rately, from  the  Annunciation  day,  March  25th,  421,  to  the 
day  of  St.  Nicholas,  December  6th,  1100. 

At  the  close  of  this  epoch  Venice  had  fully  learned  Chri 
tianity  from  the  Greeks,  chivaliy  from  the  Normans,  and  the 
laws  of  human  life  and  toil  from  the  ocean.  Prudently  and 
nobly  proud,  she  stood,  a  helpful  and  wise  princess,  highest  in 
counsel  and  mightiest  in  deed,  among  the  knightly  powers  of 
the  world. 


44  ST.  MARK'S  REST, 

IL  The  second  period  is  that  of  her  great  deeds  in  war, 
and  of  the  establishment  of  her  reign  in  justice  and  truth 
(the  best  at  least  that  she  knew  of  either),  over,  nominalij, 
the  fourth  part  of  the  forraer  Roman  Empire.  It  includes  the 
whole  of  the  tweHth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  and  is  chiefly 
characterized  by  the  religious  passion  of  the  Crusades.  It 
lasts,  in  accurate  terms,  from  December  6th,  1100,  to  Febru- 
ary 28th,  1297  ;  but  as  the  event  of  that  day  was  not  con- 
firmed till  three  years  afterwards,  we  get  the  fortunately  pre- 
cise terminal  date  of  1301. 

in.  The  third  period  is  that  of  religious  meditation,  as 
distinct  through  not  withdrawn  from,  religious  action.  It  is 
marked  by  the  establishment  of  schools  of  kindly  civil  order, 
and  by  its  endeavors  to  express,  in  word  and  picture,  the 
thoughts  which  until  then  had  wrought  in  silence.  The 
entire  body  of  her  noble  art-work  belongs  to  this  time.  It 
includes  the  fourteenth  and  fifteeenth  centuries,  and  twenty 
years  more  :  from  1301  ^  to  1520. 

TV.  The  fourth  j)eriod  is  that  of  the  luxurious  use,  and  dis- 
play, of  the  powers  attained  by  the  labor  and  meditation  of 
former  times,  but  now  applied  without  either  labor  or  medita- 
tion : — religion,  art,  and  literature,  having  become  things  of 
custom  and  "  costume."  It  spends,  in  eighty  years,  the  fruits 
of  the  toil  of  a  thousand,  and  terminates,  strictly,  with  the 
death  of  Tintoret,  in  1591  :  we  will  say  1600. 

From  that  day  the  remainder  of  the  record  of  Venice  is 
only  the  diary  of  expiring  delirium,  and  by  those  who  love 
her,  will  be  traced  no  farther.  But  while  you  are  here  within 
her  walls  I  will  endeavor  to  interpret  clearly  to  you  the 
legends  on  them,  in  which  she  has  herself  related  the  passions 
of  her  Four  Ages. 

And  see  how  easily  they  are  to  be  numbered  and  remem- 
bered. Twelve  hundred  years  in  all  ;  divided — ^if,  broadly, 
we  call  the  third  period  two  centuries,  and  the  fourth,  one, — 
in  diminishing  proportion,  7,  2,  2,  1 :  it  is  like  the  spiral 
of  a  shell,  reversed. 

I  have  in  this  first  sketch  of  them  distinguished  these  four 
'  Compara  ^Stones  of  Venice'  (old  edit.;,  vol.  ii.,  p.  291. 


riJF  ."^UADow  ox  nil-:  dial.  1-5 

.  s  ny  I    .    '         -  lief  element  of  eveiy  nation's 

I  ind — its  religion,  with  the  consequent  results  upon  its  art. 
J3ut  you  see  I  have  made  no  mention  whatever  of  all  thai^ 
common  histonans  think  it  their  primal  business  to  discourse 
of, — policy,  government,  commercial  prosperity  !  One  of  my 
dates  however  is  determined  by  a  crisis  of  internal  policy  ; 
and  I  will  at  least  note,  as  the  material  instrumentation  of 
the  spiritual  song,  the  metamorphoses  of  state-order  which 
accompanied,  in  each  transition,  the  now  nativities  of  the 
;ite's  heart. 

I.  During  the  first  period,  which  completes  iiiu  iiiimiiig  ui 
many  tribes  into  one,  and  the  softening  of  savage  faith  into 
intelligent  Christianity,  we  see  the  gradual  establishment  of  a 
more  and  more  distinctly  virtuous  monarchic  authority  ;  con- 
tinually disputed,  and  often  abused,  but  purified  by  every 
reign  into  stricter  duty,  and  obeyed  by  eveiy  generation  with 
more  sacred  regard.  At  the  close  of  this  epoch,  the  helpful 
presence  of  God,  and  the  leading  powers  of  the  standard- 
bearer  Saint,  and  sceptre-bearing  King,  are  vitally  believed  ; 
reverently,  and  to  the  death,  obeyed.  And,  in  the  eleventh 
century,  the  Palace  of  the  Duke  and  lawgiver  of  the  people, 
and  his  Chai3el,  enshrining  the  body  of  St.  Mark,  stand,  bright 
with  marble  and  gold,  side  by  side. 

II.  In  the  second  period,  that  of  active  Christian  warfare, 
there  separates  itself  from  the  mass  of  the  people,  chiefly  by 
pre-eminence  in  knightly  achievement,  and  persistence  in  pa- 
^ liotic  virtue, — but  also,  by  the  intellectual  training  received 

the  conduct  of  great  foreign  enterprise,  and  maintenance 

of  le;jjislation  among  strange  people,  -  an  order  of  aristocracy, 

raised  both  in  wisdom  and  valor  greatly  above  the  average 

\  el  of  the  multitude,  and  gradually  joining  to  the  traditions 

of  Patrician  Rome,  the  domestic  refinements,  and  imaginative 

sanctities,  of  the  northern  and  Prankish  chivalry,  whose  chiefs 

re  their  battle  comrades.     At  the  close  of  the  epoch,  this 

)re  sternly  educated  class  determines  to  assume  authority 

the  government  of  the  State,  unswayed  by  the  humor,  and 

unhindered    by  the  ignorance,  of   the  lower  classes  of  the 

people  ;  and  the  year  which  I  have  ji.ssi^niivl  for  Wn-  ,'K*»'ni'ate 


^0  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

close  of  tlie  second  period  is  that  of  the  great  division  be- 
tween nobles  and  plebeians,  called  by  the  Venetians  the 
"  Closing  of  the  Council/' — the  restriction,  that  is  to  say,  of 
the  powers  of  the  Senate  to  the  hneal  aristocracy. 

III.  The  third  period  shows  us  the  advance  of  this  now 
separate  body  of  Venetian  gentlemen  in  such  thought  and 
passion  as  the  privilege  of  their  position  admitted,  or  its 
temptations  provoked.  The  gradually  increasing  knowledge 
of  literature,  culminating  at  last  in  the  discovery  of  printing, 
and  revival  of  classic  formuL'B  of  method,  modified  by  reflec- 
tion, or  dimmed  by  disbelief,  the  frank  Christian  faith  of 
earlier  ages ;  and  social  position  independent  of  military 
prow'css,  developed  at  once  the  ingenuity,  frivolity,  and  vanity 
of  the  scholar,  with  the  avarice  and  cunning  of  the  merchant. 

Protected  and  encouraged  by  a  senate  thus  composed,  dis- 
tinct companies  of  craftsmen,  wdiolly  of  the  people,  gathered 
into  vowed  fraternities  of  social  order  ;  and,  retaining  the 
illiterate  sincerities  of  their  religion,  labored  in  unambitious 
peace,  under  the  orders  of  the  philosophic  aristocracy  ; — built 
for  them  their  great  palaces,  and  overlaid  their  walls,  within 
and  without,  with  gold  and  purple  of  Tyre,  precious  now  in 
Venetian  hands  as  the  colors  of  heaven  more  than  of  the  sea. 
By  the  hand  of  one  of  them,  the  picture  of  Venice,  with  her 
nobles  in  her  streets,  at  the  end  of  this  epoch,  is  preserved  to 
you  as  yet,  and  I  trust  will  be,  by  the  kind  fates,  preserved 
datelessly. 

IV.  In  the  fourth  period,  the  discovery  of  printing  having 
confused  literature  into  vociferation,  and  the  delicate  skill  of 
the  craftsman  having  provoked  splendor  into  lasciviousness, 
the  jubilant  and  coruscant  passions  of  the  nobles,  stately  yet 
in  the  forms  of  religion,  but  scornful  of  her  discipline,  ex- 
hausted, in  their  own  false  honor,  at  once  the  treasures  of 
Venice  and  her  skill  ;  reduced  at  last  her  people  to  misery, 
and  her  policy  to  shame,  and  smoothed  for  themselves  the 
downward  way  to  the  abdication  of  their  might  for  evermore. 

Now  these  two  histories  of  the  religion  and  policy  of  Ven- 
ice are  only  intense  abstracts  of  the  same  course  of  thought 
and  events  in  every  nation  of  Europe.     Throughout  the  whole 


7/7/';   SHADOW   ON    Tim  DIAL.  47 

of  Christendom,  ^  like  manner  proceed  to- 

gether. The  acceptance  of  Christianity — the  practice  of  it — 
the  abandonment  of  it — and  moral  ruin.  The  development  of 
kingly  authority, — the  obedience  to  it — the  con'uption  of  it — 
and  social  ruin.  But  there  is  no  evidence  that  the  first  of  these 
courses  of  national  fate  is  vitally  connected  with  the  second, 
lliat  infidel  kings  may  be  just,  and  Christian  ones  cornipt, 
was  the  first  lesson  Venice  learned  when  she  began  to  be  a 
scholar. 

And  obseiTe  there  are  three  quite  distinct  conditions  of 
feeling  and  assumptions  of  theory  in  which  we  may  approach 
this  matter.  The  first,  that  of  our  numerous  cockney  friends, 
— that  the  dukes  of  Venice  were  mostly  hypocrites,  and  if  not, 
fools  ;  that  their  pious  zeal  w^as  merely  such  a  cloak  for  their 
commercial  appetite  as  modern  church-going  is  for  modern 
swindling  ;  or  else  a  pitiable  hallucination  and  puerility  : — 
that  really  the  attention  of  the  supreme  cockney  mind  would 
be  .wasted  on  such  bygone  absurdities,  and  that  out  of  mere 
respect  for  the  common  sense  of  monkey-born-and-bred  hu- 
manity, the  less  we  say  of  them  the  better. 

The  second  condition  of  feeling  is,  in  its  full  confession,  a 
very  rare  one  ; — that  of  true  respect  for  the  Christian  faith, 
and  sympathy  with  the  passions  and  imaginations  it  excited, 
while  yet  in  security  of  modern  enlightenment,  the  observer 
regards  the  faith  itself  only  as  an  exquisite  dream  of  mortal 
childhood,  and  the  acts  of  its  votaries  as  a  beautifully  deceived 
heroism  of  vain  hope.  ■ 

This  theory  of  the  splendid  mendacity  of  Heaven,  and  ma- 
jestic somnambulism  of  man,  I  have  only  known  to  be  held  in 
the  sincere  depth  of  its  discomfort,  by  one  of  my  wisest  and 
deai-est  friends,  under  the  pressure  of  uncomprehended  sor- 
row in  his  own  personal  experience.  .  But  to  some  extent  it 
confuses  or  undermines  the  thoughts  of  nearly  all  men  who 
have  been  interested  in  the  material  investigations  of  recent 
physical  science,  while  retaining  yet  imagination  and  imder- 
standing  enough  to  enter  into  the  heart  of  the  religious  and 
creative  ages. 

And  it  necessai'ily  takes  possession  of  the  spirit  of  such  men 


48  ST.  MARIVS  REST. 

chiefly  at  the  times  of  personal  sorrow,  which  teach  even  to 
the  wisest,  the  hoUowness  of  their  best  trust,  and  the  vanity 
of  their  dearest  visions ;  and  when  the  epitaph  of  all  human 
virtue,  and  sum  of  human  peace,  seem  to  be  written  in  the 
lowly  argument, — 

"  We  are  sucli  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of  ;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

The  third,  the  only  modest,  and  therefore  the  only  rational, 
theory,  is,  that  we  are  all  and  always,  in  these  as  in  former 
ages,  deceived  by  our  own  guilty  passions,  blinded  by  our 
own  obstinate  wills,  and  misled  by  the  insolence  and  fantasy 
of  our  ungoverned  thoughts  ;  but  that  there  is  verily  a  Divin- 
ity in  nature  which  has  shaped  the  rough  hewn  deeds  of  our 
weak  human  effort,  and  revealed  itself  in  rays  of  broken,  but 
of  eternal  light,  to  the  souls  which  have  desired  to  see  the  day 
of  the  Son  of  Man. 

By  the  more  than  miraculous  fatality  which  has  been  hither- 
to permitted  to  rule  the  course  of  the  kingdoms  of  this  world, 
the  men  who  are  capable  of  accepting  such  faith,  are  rarely 
able  to  read  the  history  of  nations  by  its  interpretation. 
They  nearly  all  belong  to  some  one  of  the  passionately  egot- 
istic sects  of  Christianity  ;  and  are  miserably  perverted  into  the 
missionary  service  of  their  own  schism  ;  eager  only,  in  the 
records  of  the  past,  to  gather  evidence  to  the  advantage  of 
their  native  persuasion,  and  to  the  disgrace  of  all  opponent 
forms  of  similar  heresy ;  or,  that  is  to  say,  in  every  case,  of 
nine -tenths  of  the  religion  of  this  world. 

With  no  less  thankfulness  for  the  lesson,  than  shame  for 
what  it  showed,  I  have  myself  been  forced  to  recognize  the 
degree  in  which  all  my  early  Avork  on  Venetian  history  was 
paralyzed  by  this  petulance  of  sectarian  egotism  ;  and  it  is 
among  the  chief  advantages  I  possess  for  the  task  now  under- 
taken in  my  closing  years,  that  there  are  few  of  the  errors 
against  which  I  have  to  warn  my  readers,  into  which  I  have 
not  myself  at  some  time  fallen.  Of  which  errors,  the  chief, 
and  cause  of  all  ihe  rest,  is  the  leaning  on  our  own  under- 


RED   AND  WRITE   CLOUDS.  -1-'^ 

standing  ;  the  thought  that  we  can  measure  the  hearts  of  (jur 
brethren,  and  judge  of  the  ways  of  God.  Of  the  hearts  of 
men,  noble,  yet  "  deceitful  above  all  things,  who  can  know 
them?" — that  infinitely  perverted  scripture  is  yet  infinitely 
true.  And  for  the  ways  of  God  !  Oh,  my  good  and  gentle 
reader,  bow  much  otherwise  would  not  you  and  I  have  made 
this  world  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EED   AND   WHITE    CLOUDS. 


Not,  therefore,  to  lean  on  our  own  sense,  but  in  till  the 
strength  it  has,  to  use  it ;  not  to  be  captives  to  our  private 
thoughts,  but  to  dwell  in  them,  without  wandering,  until,  out 
of  the  chambers  of  our  own  hearts  we  begin  to  conceive  what 
labyrinth  is  in  those  of  others, — thus  we  have  to  prepare  our- 
selves, good  reader,  for  the  reading  of  any  history. 

If  but  we  may  at  last  succeed  in  reading  a  little  of  our  own, 
and  discerning  what  scene  of  the  world's  drama  we  are  set  to 
play  in, — drama  w^hose  tenor,  tragic  or  other,  seemed  of  old 
to  rest  with  so  few  actors ;  but  now,  with  this  pantomimic 
mob  upon  the  stage,  can  you  make  out  any  of  the  storj^  ? — 
prove,  even  in  your  own  heart,  how  much  you  believe  that 
there  is  any  Playwright  behind  the  scenes  ? 

Such  a  wild  dream  as  it  is  ! — nay,  as  it  always  has  been, 
except  in  momentary  fits  of  consciousness,  and  instants  of 
startled  spii'it, — perceptive  of  heaven.  For  many  centuries 
the  Knights  of  Cbiistendom  wore  their  religion  gay  as  their 
crest,  familiar  as  their  gauntlet,  shook  it  high  in  the  summer 
air,  hm-led  it  fiercely  in  other  people's  faces,  grasped  their 
spear  the  firmer  for  it,  sat  their  horses  the  prouder ;  but  it 
never  entered  into  their  minds  for  an  instant  to  ask  the  mean- 
ing of  it !  *  Forgive  us  our  sins  : '  by  all  means — yes,  and  the 
next  garrison  that  holds  out  a  day  longer  than  is  convenient 
to  us,  hang  them  every  man  to  his  battlement.  *  Give  us  this 
day  our  daily  bread,* — yes,  and  our  neighbor's  also,  if  we 
have  any  luck.     *  Our  Lady  and  the  siiints  ! '     Is  there  any 


60  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

infidel  dog  that  doubts  of  them  ? — in  God's  name,  boot  and 
spur — and  let  us  have  the  head  off  him.  It  went  on  so, 
frankly  and  bravely,  to  the  twelfth  century,  at  the  earliest ; 
Avhen  men  begin  to  think  in  a  serious  manner  ;  more  or  less 
of  gentle  manners  and  domestic  comfort  being  also  then  con- 
ceivable and  attainable.  Eosamond  is  not  any  more  asked  to 
drink  out  of  her  father's  skull.  Kooms  begin  to  be  matted 
and  wainscoted ;  shops  to  hold  store  of  marvellous  foreign 
wares  ;  knights  and  ladies  learn  to  spell,  and  to  read,  with 
pleasure  ;  music  is  everywhere  ; — Death,  also.  Much  to  en- 
joy— much  to  learn,  and  to  endure — with  Death  always  at  the 
gates.  /'If  war  fail  thee  in  thine  own  country,  get  thee  with 
haste  into  another,"  says  the  faithful  old  French  knight  to  the 
boy- chevalier,  in  early  fourteenth  century  days. 

No  country  stays  more  than  two  centuries  in  this  inter- 
mediate phase  between  Faith  and  Keason.  In  France  it  lasted 
from  about  1150  to  1350  ;  in  England,  1200  to  1400 ;  in 
Venice,  1300  to  1500.  The  course  of  it  is  always  in  the 
gradual  development  of  Christianity, — till  her  yoke  gets  at 
once  too  aerial,  and  too  straight,  for  the  mob,  who  break 
through  it  at  last  as  if  it  were  so  much  gossamer  ;  and  at  the 
same  fatal  time,  wealth  and  luxury,  with  the  vanity  of  corrupt 
learning,  foul  the  faith  of  the  upper  classes,  who  now  begin  to 
wear  their  Christianity,  not  tossed  for  a  crest  high  over  their 
armor,  but  stuck  as  a  plaster  over  their  sores,  inside  of  their 
clothes.  Then  comes  printing,  and  universal  gabble  of  fools ; 
gunpowder,  and  the  end  of  all  the  noble  methods  of  war  ; 
trade,  and  universal  swindling  ;  wealth,  and  universal  gam- 
bling ;  idleness,  and  universal  harlotry  ;  and  so  at  last — 
Modern  Science  and  Political  Economy  ;  and  the  reign  of  St. 
Petroleum  instead  of  St.  Peter.  Out  of  which  God  only  knows 
what  is  to  come  next ;  but  He  doe^  know,  whatever  the  Jew 
swindlers  and  apothecaries'  'prentices  think  about  it. 

Meantime,  with  what  remainder  of  belief  in  Christ  may  be 
left  in  us  ;  and  helping  that  remnant  with  all  the  power  wx- 
have  of  imagining  what  Christianity  was,  to  people  who,  with- 
out understanding  its  claims  or  its  meaning,  did  not  doubf. 
for  an  instant  its  statements  of  fact,  and  used  the  whole  of 


HIJI)   AN  J)  WlllTK   CLOUDS.  CI 

I  (  ir  childish  imagination  to  reaHze  the  acts  of  their  Saviours 
lite,  and  the  presence  of  His  angels,  let  us  draw  near  to  the 
first  sandy  thresholds  of  tiie  Venetian's  home. 

Before  you  read  any  of  the  so-called  historical  events  of  the 
first  period,  I  want  you  to  have  some  notion  of  their  scene. 
You  will  hear  of  Tribunes — Consuls— Doges  ;  but  what  sort 
of  tribes  were  they  tribunes  of  ?  what  sort  of  nation  were 
they  dukes  of  ?  You  will  hear  of  brave  naval  battle — victory 
over  sons  of  Emperors  :  what  manner  of  people  were  the}-, 
then,  whose  swords  Hghten  thus  brightly  in  the  dawn  of  chiv- 
alry? 

For  the  whole  of  her  first  seven  hundred  years  of  work  and 
war,  Venice  was  in  great  part  a  wooden  town  ;  the  houses  of 
the  noble  mainland  families  being  for  long  years  chiefly  at 
Heraclea,  and  on  other  islands  ;   nor  they  magnificent,  but 
farm-villas  mostly,  of  which,  and  their  farming,  more  pres- 
ently.    Far  too  much  stress  has  been  generally  laid  on  the 
fishing  and  salt-works  of  early  Venice,  as  if  they  were  her 
only  businesses  ;  nevertheless  at  least  you  may  be  sure  of  this 
much,  that  for  seven  hundred  j^ears  Venice  had  more  likeness 
in  her  to  old  Yarmouth  than  to  new  Pall  Mall ;  and  that  you 
might  come  to  shrewder  guess  of  what  she  and  her  people 
were  like,  by  living  for  a  year  or  two  lovingly  among  the  her- 
ring-catchers of  Yarmouth  Roads,  or  the  boatmen  of  Deal  or 
Boscastle,  than  by  reading  any  lengths  of  eloquent  history. 
But  you  are  to  know  also,  and  remember  always,  that  thi- 
amphibious  city — this  Phocfca,  or  sea-dog  of  towns — lookiii 
with  soft  human  eyes  at  you  from  the  sand,  Proteus  hims(  i 
latent  in  the  salt-smelling  skin  of  her — had  fields,  and  plot 
of  garden  here  and  there  ;  and,  far  and  near,  sweet  woods  oi 
CaljT^so,  graceful  with  quivering  sprays,  for  woof  of  nests — 
f^^aunt  with  forked  limbs  for  ribs  of  ships  ;  had  good  milk  and 
Ijutter  from  familiarly  couchant  cows ;    thickets  wherein  fa- 
miliar birds  could  sing  ;  and  finally  was  observant  of  cloud 
and  sky,  as  pleasant  and  useful  phenomena.     And  she  had  . 
due  distances  among  her  simple  dwellings,  stately  church( 
of  marble. 

These  things  you  may  know,  if  you  will,  from  the  followii:. 


52  ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 

^'  quite  ridiculous"  tradition,  which,  ridiculous  as  it  may  be, 
I  will  beg  you  for  once  to  read,  since  the  Doge  Andrea  Dan- 
dolo  wrote  it  for  you,  with  the  attention  due  to  the  address  of 
a  Venetian  gentleman,  and  a  King.' 

"As  head  and  bishop  of  the  islands,  the  Bishop  Magnus  of 
Altinum  went  from  place  to  place  to  give  them  comfort,  saying 
that  they  ought  to  thank  God  lor  having  escaped  from  these 
barbarian  cruelties.  And  there  appeared  to  him  St.  Peter,  or- 
dering him  that  in  the  head  of  Venice,  or  truly  of  the  city  of 
Eivoalto,  where  he  should  find  oxen  and  sheep  feeding,  he 
was  to  build  a  church  under  his  (St  Peter's)  name.  And  thus 
he  did  ;  building  St.  Peter's  Clmrch  i]i  the  island  of  Olivolo, 
where  at  present  is  the  seat  and  cathedral  church  of  Venice. 

"  Afterwards  appeared  to  him  the  angel  Eaphael,  commit- 
ting it  to  him,  that  at  another  place,  where  he  should  find  a 
number  of  birds  together,  he  should  build  him  a  church :  and 
so  he  did,  which  is  the  church  of  the  Angel  Raphael  in  Dor- 
soduro. 

"Afterwards  appeared  to  him  Messer  Jesus  Christ  our 
Lord,  and  committed  to  him  that  in  the  midst  of  the  city  he 
should  build  a  church,  in  the  place,  above  which  he  should 
see  a  red  cloud  rest :  and  so  he  did  ;  and  it  is  San  Salvador. 

"Afterwards  appeared  to  him  the  most  holj^  Mary  the  Vir- 
gin, very  beautiful ;  and  commanded  him  that  where  he  should 
see  a  white  cloud  rest,  he  should  build  a  church :  which  is  the 
church  of  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful. 

"Yet  still  appeared  to  him  St.  John  the  Baptist,  command- 
ing that  he  should  build  two  churches,  one  near  the  other — 
the  one  to  be  in  his  name,  and  the  other  in  the  name  of  his 
father.  Which  he  did,  and  they  are  San  Giovanni  in  Bragola, 
and  San  Zaccaria. 

"  Then  appeared  to  him  the  apostles  of  Christ,  wishing,  they 

'  A  more  graceful  form  of  this  legend  has  been  translated  with  feel- 
ing and  care  by  the  Countess  Isobel  Cholmlev,  in  Bermani,  from  an 
MS.  in  her  possession,  copied,  I  believe,  from  one  of  the  tenth  century. 
But  I  take  the  form  in  which  it  was  written  by  Andrea  Dandolo,  tliat 
the  reader  may  have  more  direct  associations  with  the  beautiful  image 
of  the  Doge  on  his  tomb  in  the  Bai)tistery. 


i  ■  .      and  they  committed 

liim  that  where  he  should  see  twelve  cranes  in  a  com- 
paiiv,  there  he  should  build  it.  Lastly  appeared  to  him  the 
blessed  Virgin  Giustina,  and  ordered  him  that  wliere  he  should 
find  vines  bearing  fresh  fruits  there  he  should  build  her  a 
<^hurch." 

Now  this  legend  is  quite  one  of  the  most  precious  things  in 
the  story  of  Venice  :  preserved  for  us  in  this  form  at  the  end 
of  the  fourteenth  centuiy,  by  one  of  her  most  highly  edu- 
cated gentlemen,  it  shows  the  very  heart  of  her  rehgious  and 
domestic  power,  and  assures  for  us,  with  other  evidence, 
these  following  facts. 

First ;  that  a  certain  measure  of  pastoral  home-life  was 
mingled  with  Venice's  training  of  her  sailors ; — evidence 
whereof  remains  to  this  day,  in  the  unfailing  *  Campo  * 
round  every  church  ;  the  church  '  meadow ' — not  chui'ch- 
*yard.'  It  happened  to  me,  once  in  my  life,  to  go  to  church 
in  a  state  of  very  great  happiness  and  peace  of  mind ;  and 
this  in  a  very  small  and  secluded  country  church.  And  Fors 
would  have  it  that  I  should  get  a  seat  in  the  chancel ;  and 
the  day  was  sunny,  and  the  Httle  side  chancel-door  was  open 
opposite  into,  what  I  hope  was  a  field.  I  saw  no  graves  in 
it ;  but  in  the  sunshine,  sheep  feeding.  And  I  never  was  at  so 
divine  a  church  service  before,  nor  have  been  since.  If  you  will 
read  the  opening  of  Wordsworth's  *  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,' 
and  can  enjoy  it,  you  may  learn  from  it  what  the  look  of  an 
old  Venetian  church  would  be,  with  its  surrounding  field. 
St.  Mark's  Place  was  only  the  meadow  of  St.  Theodore's 
church,  in  those  days. 

Next — you  observe  the  care  and  watching  of  animals. 
That  is  still  a  love  in  the  heart  of  Venice.  One  of  the  chief 
little  worries  to  me  in  my  work  here,  is  that  I  walk  faster 
than  the  pigeons  are  used  to  have  people  walk  ;  and  am  con- 
tinually like  to  tread  on  them  ;  and  see  story  in  Fors,  March 
of  this  year,  of  the  gondolier  and  his  dog.  Nay,  though,  the 
other  day,  I  was  greatly  tormented  at  the  public  gardens,  in 
the  early  morning,  when  I  had  counted  on  a  quiet  walk,  by 


54  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

a  cluster  of  boys  wlio  were  chasing  the  first  twittering  birds 
of  the  spring  from  bush  to  bush,  and  throwing  sand  at  them, 
with  wild  shouts  and  whistles,  they  were  not  doing  it,  as  I  at 
first  thought,  in  mere  mischief,  but  with  hope  of  getting  a 
penny  or  two  to  gamble  with,  if  they  could  clog  the  poor 
little  creatures'  wings  enough  to  bring  one  down — "  '  Canta 
bene,  signor,  quell'  uccellino."  Such  the  nineteenth  century's 
reward  of  Song.  Meantime,  among  the  silvery  gleams  of 
islet  tower  on  the  lagoon  horizon,  beyond  Mazorbo — a  white 
ray  flashed  from  the  place  where  St.  Francis  preached  to  the 
Birds. 

Then  thirdly — note  that  curious  observance  of  the  color  of 
clouds.  That  is  gone,  indeed  ;  and  no  Venetian,  or  Italian,  or 
Frenchman,  or  Englishman,  is  likely  to  know  or  care,  more, 
whether  any  God-given  cloud  is  white  or  red  ;  the  primal  ef- 
fort of  his  entire  human  existence  being  now  to  vomit  out 
the  biggest  black  one  he  can  pollute  the  heavens  with.  But,  in 
their  rough  way,  there  was  yet  a  perception  in  the  old  fisher- 
men's eyes  of  the  difference  between  white  'nebbia'on  the 
morning  sea,  and  red  clouds  in  the  evening  twilight.  And 
the  Stella  Maris  comes  in  the  sea  Cloud  ; — Leucothea  :  but  the 
Son  of  Man  on  the  jasper  throne. 

Thus  much  of  the  aspect,  and  the  thoughts  of  earliest  Ven- 
ice, we  may  gather  from  one  tradition,  carefully  read.  "What 
historical  evidence  exists  to  confirm  the  gathering,  you  shall 
see  in  a  little  while  ;  meantime — such  being  the  scene  of  the 
opening  drama — we  must  next  consider  somewhat  of  the 
character  of  the  actors.  For  though  what  manner  of  houses 
they  had,  has  been  too  little  known,  what  manner  of  men  they 
were,  has  not  at  all  been  known,  or  even  the  reverse  of  known, 
— belied. 


DIVINE  RIGHT.  ^^ 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

DIVINE   RIGHT. 

Are  you  impatient  with  me  ?  and  do  you  wish  me,  ceasing 
preamble,  to  begin — *In  the  year  this,  happened  that,' and 
set  you  down  a  page  of  dates  and  Doges  to  be  learned  off 
by  rote?  You  must  be  denied  such  delight  a  little  while 
longer.  If  I  begin  dividing  this  first  period,  at  present  (and 
it  has  very  distinctly  articulated  joints  of  its  own),  we  should 
p;et  confused  between  the  subdivided  and  the  great  epochs.  I 
jiiust  keep  your  thoughts  to  the  Three  Times,  till  we  know 
ibem  clearly  ;  and  in  this  chapter  I  am  only  going  to  tell  you 
the  stor}'  of  a  single  Doge  of  the  First  Time,  and  gather  what 
we  can  out  of  it. 

Onl}^  since  we  have  been  hitherto  dwelling  on  the  soft  and 
religiously  sentimental  parts  of  early  Venetian  character,  it  is 
needful  that  I  should  ask  you  to  notice  one  condition  in  their 
government  of  a  quite  contrary  nature,  which  historians  usu- 
ally pass  by  as  if  it  were  of  no  consequence  ;  namely,  that 
during  this  first  period,  five  Doges,  after  being  deposed,  had 
their  eyes  put  out 

Palled  out,  say  some  writers,  and  I  think  with  evidence 
reaching  down  as  far  as  the  endurance  on  our  English  stage 
of  the  blinding  of  Gloster  in  King  Lear. 

But  at  all  events  the  Dukes  of  Venice,  whom  her  people 
thought  to  have  failed  in  their  duty,  were  in  that  manner  in- 
capacitated from  reigning  more. 

An  Eastern  custom,  as  we  know  :  grave  in  judgment  ;  in 
the  perfectness  of  it,  joined  with  infliction  of  grievous  Sight, 
before  the  infliction  of  giievous  Blindness  ;  that  so  the  last 
memory  of  this  world's  hght  might  remain  a  grief.  "  And 
they  slew  the  sons  of  Zedekiah  before  his  cyos  ;  and  put  out 
the  eyes  of  Zedekiah." 

Custom  I  know  not  how  ancient  The  n^^iio  ui'  Eliab,  when 
Judah  was  young  in  her  Exodus,  hke  Venice,  appealed  to  it  iu 


S6  ST.  MARK'S  MEST. 

their  fury  :  *'  Is  it  a  small  tiling  that  thou  hast  brought  us  up 
out  of  a  land  that  floweth  with  milk  and  honey,  except  thou 
make  thyself  altogether  a  Prince  over  us  ;  wilt  thou  j)ut  out 
the  eyes  of  these  men  ?  " 

The  more  wild  "Western  raqes  of  Christianity,  early  Irish 
and  the  like, — Norman  even,  in  the  pirate  times, — inflict  the 
penalty  wdth  reckless  scorn  ; '  but  Venice  deliberately,  as  was 
her  constant  way  ;  such  her  practical  law  against  leaders 
whom  she  had  found  spiritually  blind :  "  These,  at  least,  shall 
guide  no  more." 

Very  savage  !  monstrous  !  if  you  will ;  whether  it  be  not  a 
worse  savageness  deliberately  to  follow  leaders  ivithout  sight, 
may  be  debatable. 

The  Doge  w^hose  history  I  am  going  to  tell  you  was  the  last 
of  deposed  Kings  in  the  first  ejooch.  Not  blinded,  he,  as  far 
as  I  read  :  but  permitted,  I  trust  peaceably,  to  become  a  monk  ; 
Venice  owing  to  him  much  that  has  been  the  delight  of  her 
own  and  other  people's  eyes,  ever  since.  Respecting  the  oc- 
casion of  his  dethronement,  a  story  remains,  however,  very 
notably  in  connection  with  this  manner  of  punishment. 

Venice,  throughout  this  first  period  in  close  alliance  with  the 
Greeks,  sent  her  Doge,  in  the  year  1082,  with  a  "  valid  fleet, 
terrible  in  its  most  ordered  disposition,"  to  defend  the  Em- 
peror Alexis  against  the  Normans,  led  by  the  greatest  of  all 
Western  captains,  Guiscard. 

The  Doge  defeated  him  in  naval  battle  once  ;  and,  on  the 
third  day  after,  once  again,  and  so  conclusively,  that,  think- 

^  Or  sometimes  pitifully  :  ''  Olaf  was  bj  no  means  an  unmerciful  man, 
— much  the  reverse  where  he  saw  good  cause.  There  was  a  wicked  old 
King  Rserik,  for  example,  one  of  those  five  kinglets  whom,  with  their 
bits  of  armaments,  Olaf,  by  stratagem,  had  surrounded  one  night,  and 
at  once  bagged  and  subjected  when  morning  rose,  all  of  them  consent- 
ing ; — all  of  them  except  this  Eserik,  whom  Olaf,  as  the  readiest  sure 
course,  took  home  with  him  ;  blinded,  and  kept  in  his  own  house,  find- 
ing there  was  no  alternative  but  that  or  death  to  the  obstinate  old  dog, 
who  was  a  kind  of  distant  cousin  withal,  and  could  not  conscientiously 
be  killed' — (Carlyle,  — '  Early  Kings  of  Norway,'  p.  121)  — conscience, 
and  kin-ship,  or  '^  kindliness,"  declining  somewhat  in  the  Norman  heart 
afterwards. 


DIVINE  niGIIT. 

ing  the  debate  ended,  he  sent  liis  lightest  ships  home,  an 
anchored  on  tbo  A^^>*^iirv"»  fo<>^f  Tvith  ^\v'  ro^f  ..^  i.m-i'iw.-  /i/v. 
his  work. 

But  Guiscard,  olherwise  luiuded  on  that  matter,  with  the 
remains  of  liis  fleet, — and  his  Norman  temper  at  hottest, — 
attacked  him  for  the  third  time.  The  Greek  allied  ships  fled. 
The  Venetian  ones,  partly  disabled,  had  no  advantage  in  their 
seamanship  :  ^  question  only  remained,  after  the  battle,  how 
the  Venetians  should  bear  themselves  as  prisoners.  Guiscard 
put  out  the  eyes  of  some  ;  then,  with  such  penalty  impend- 
ing over  the  rest,  demanded  that  they  should  make  peace 
with  the  Normans,  and  fight  for  the  Greek  Emperor  no  more. 

But  the  Venetians  answered,  "  Know  thou,  Duke  Robert, 
that  although  also  we  should  see  our  wives  and  children  slaii 
we  will  not  deny  our  covenants  with  the  Autocrat  Alexis  ; 
neither  will  we  cease  to  help  him,  and  to  fight  for  him  with 
our  whole  hearts." 

The  Norman  chief  sent  them  home  unransomed. 

There  is  a  highwater  mark  for  you  of  the  waves  of  Venetian 
and  Western  chivaliy  in  the  eleventh  century.  A  very  notable 
scene  ;  the  northern  leader,  without  rival  the  greatest  soldier 
of  the  sea  whom  our  rocks  and  ice-bergs  bred  :  of  the  Ven( 
tian  one,  and  his  people,  w^e  will  now  try  to  learn  the  charac- 
ter more  perfectly, — for  all  this  took  place  towards  the  close 
of  the  Doge  Selvo's  life.  You  shall  next  hear  what  I  can 
glean  of  the  former  course  of  it. 

In  the  year  1053,  the  Abbey  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  protector 
of  mariners,  had  been  built  at  the  entrance  of  the  port  of 
Venice  (where,  north  of  the  bathing  establishment,  you  now 
see  the  little  church  of  St.  Nicholas  of  the  Lido) ;  the  Doge 
Domenico  Contarini,  the  Patriarch  of  Grado,  and  the  Bishop 
of  Venice,  chiefly  finding  the  funds  for  such  edifice. 

When  the  Doge  Contarini  died,  the  entire  multitude  of  the 
people  of  Venice  came  in  armed  boats  to  the  Lido,  and  th^^ 
Bishop  of  Venice,  and  the  monks  of  the  new  abbey  of  Si 
Nicholas,  joined  with  tliem  in  prayer, — the  monks  in  their 

*  Their  crews  had  eaten  all  f1»»^ir  ^u^v^^<  u^,^  fi, ,<,•,.  ci.i,>o  ,,<...,.  tiviiv"- 
light,  and  would  not  steer  wel 


t^S  ST.  MARK'S  REST, 

clmrch  and  the  people  on  the  shore  and  in  their  boats, — that 
God  would  avert  all  dangers  from  their  country,  and  grant  to 
them  such  a  king  as  should  be  worth}^  to  reign  over  it.  And 
as  they  prayed,  with  one  accord,  suddenly  there  rose  up 
among  the  multitude  the  cry,  "  Domenico  Selvo,  we  will,  and 
w^e  approve,"  whom  a  crowd  of  the  nobles  brought  instantly 
forward  thereupon,  and  raised  him  on  their  own  shoulders 
and  carried  him  to  his  boat ;  into  which  when  he  had  entered, 
he  put  off  his  shoes  from  his  feet,  that  he  might  in  all  humility 
approach  the  church  of  St.  Mark.  And  while  the  boats  began  to 
row  from  the  island  towards  Venice,  the  monk  who  saw  this,  and 
tells  us  of  it,  himself  began  to  sing  the  Te  Deum.  All  around, 
the  voices  of  the  people  took  up  the  hymn,  following  it  with 
the  Kyrie  Eleison,  with  such  litany  keeping  time  to  their  oars 
in  the  bright  noonday,  and  rejoicing  on  their  native  sea ;  all 
the  towers  of  the  city  answering  with  triumph  peals  as  they 
drew  nearer.  They  brought  their  Doge  to  the  Field  of  St. 
Mark,  and  carried  him  again  on  their  shoulders  to  the  porch 
of  the  church ;  there,  entering  barefoot,  with  songs  of  praise 
to  God  round  him — ^'sucli  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  vaults  must 
fall," — he  prostrated  himself  on  the  earth,  and  gave  thanks  to 
God  and  St.  Mark,  and  uttered  such  vow  as  was  in  his  heart 
to  offer  before  them.  Rising,  he  received  at  the  altar  the 
Venetian  sceptre,  and  thence  entering  the  Ducal  Palace,  re- 
ceived there  the  oath  of  fealty  from  the  people.* 

^  This  account  of  the  election  of  the  Doge  Selvo  is  given  bj  Sanso- 
vino  ('  Yenetia  descritta,'  Lib.  xi.  40  ;  Venice,  1663,  p.  477),— saying  at 
the  close  of  it  simply,  '*  Thus  writes  Domenico  Eino,  who  was  his  chap- 
lain, and  who  was  present  at  what  I  have  related."  Sansovino  seems 
therefore  to  have  seen  Rino's  manuscript ;  but  Romanin,  without 
referring  to  Sansovino,  gives  the  relation  as  if  he  had  seen  the  MS. 
himself,  but  misprints  the  chronicler's  name  as  Domenico  T\no,  causing 
no  little  trouble  to  my  kind  friend  Mr.  Lorenzi  and  me,  in  hunting  at 
St.  Mark's  and  the  Correr  Museum  for  the  unheard-of  chronicle,  till 
Mr.  Lorenzi  traced  the  passage.  And  since  Sansovinos  time  nothing 
has  been  seen  or  further  said  of  the  Rino  Chronicle.— See  Foscarini, 
*'  della  letteratura  Yeneziana,'*  Lib.  ii. 

Romanin  has  also  amplified  and  inferred  somewhat  beyond  Sanso- 
vino's  words.     The  dilapidation  of  the  palace  furniture,  especially,  is 


VI  VIjMU  lUUllT. 

Benighted  wretches,  all  of  them,  yow  think,  prince  and 
people  alike,  don't  you?  They  were  pleasanter  creatures  to 
see,  at  any  rate,  than  any  you  will  see  in  St.  Mark's  field  now- 
adays. If  the  pretty  ladies,  indeed,  would  walk  in  the  porch 
like  the  Doge,  barefoot,  instead  of  in  boots  cloven  in  two  like 
the  devil's  hoofs,  something  might  be  said  for  them  ;  but 
though  they  will  recklessly  drag  their  dresses  through  it,  I 
suppose  they  would  scarcely  care  to  walk,  like  Greek  maids, 
in  that  mixed  mess  of  dust  and  spittle  with  which  modern  pro- 
gressive Venice  anoints  her  marble  pavement.  Pleasanter  to 
look  at,  I  can  assure  you,  this  multitude  delighting  in  their 
God  and  their  Duke,  than  these,  who  have  no  Paradise  to  trust 
to  with  better  gifts  for  them  than  a  gazette,  cigar,  and  pack 
of  cards  ;  and  no  better  governor  than  their  own  wills.  You 
will  see  no  especially  happy  or  wise  faces  produced  in  St.Mark's 
Place  under  these  conditions. 

Nevertheless,  the  next  means  that  the  Doge  Selvo  took  for 
the  pleasure  of  his  people  on  his  coronation  day  savored 
somewhat  of  modern  republican  principles.  He  gave  them 
*^  the  pillage  of  his  palace  " — no  less !  Whatever  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on,  tliese  faithful  ones,  they  might  caiTy  away 
with  them,  with  the  Doge's  blessing.  At  evening  he  laid  down 
the  uneasy  crowned  head  of  him  to  rest  in  mere  dismantled 
w^alls  ;  hands  dexterous  in  the  practices  of  profitable  warfare 
having  bestirred  themselves  all  the  day.  Next  morning  the 
first  Ducal  public  orders  were  necessarily  to  the  uj^holsterers 
and  furnishers  for  readornment  of  the  palace-rooms.  Not  by 
any  special  grace  this,  or  benevolent  novelty  of  idea  in  th( 
good  Doge,  but  a  received  custom,  hitherto ;  sacred  enough, 
if  one  understands  it, — a  kind  of  mythical  putting  off  all  the 
burdens  of  one's  former  wealth,  and  entering  barefoot,  bare- 
body,  bare-soul,  into  this  one  duty  of  Guide  and  Lord,  light- 
ened thus  of  all  regai'd  for  his  own  affairs  or  properties. 
*'Take  all  I  have,  from  henceforth;  the  coq^oral  vestments 


not  attributed  by  Saiisovino  to  festive  pillage,  but  to  neglect  after  Con- 
tarinis  death.  Unquestionably,  liowever,  the  custom  alluded  to  in  th«* 
text  existed  from  very  early  times. 


00  ST,  MARK'S  REST. 

of  me,  and  all  that  is  in  their  pockets,  I  give  you  to-day ;  the 
stripped  life  of  me  is  yours  forever."  Such,  virtually,  the 
King's  vow. 

Frankest  largesse  thus  cast  to  his  electors  (modern  bribery 
is  quite  as  costly  and  not  half  so  merry),  the  Doge  set  himself 
to  refit,  not  his  own  palace  merely,  but  much  more,  God's 
house  :  for  this  prince  is  one  who  has  at  once  David's  piety, 
and  soldiership,  and  Solomon's  love  of  fine  things  ;  a  perfect 
man,  as  I  read  him,  capable  at  once  and  gentle,  religious  and 
joyful,  in  the  extreme  :  as  a  warrior  the  match  of  Koberfc 
Guiscard,  who,  you  vail  find,  was  the  soldier  par  excellence  of 
the  middle  ages,  but  not  his  match  in  the  wild-cat  cunning — 
both  of  them  alike  in  knightly  honor,  word  being  given.  As 
a  soldier,  I  say,  the  match  of  Guiscard,  but  not  holding  war 
for  the  pastime  of  life,  still  less  for  the  duty  of  Venice  or  her 
king.  Peaceful  affairs,  the  justice  and  the  joy  of  human  deeds 
—in  these  he  sought  his  power,  by  principle  and  passion 
equally ;  religious,  as  we  have  seen  ;  royal,  as  we  shall  pres- 
ently see  ;  commercial,  as  we  shall  finally  see  ;  a  perfect  man, 
recognized  as  such  with  concurrent  applause  of  people  and 
submission  of  noble  :  "  Domenico  Selvo,  we  will,  and  we  ap- 
prove." 

No  fiaw  in  him,  then  ?  Nay  ;  "  how  bad  the  best  of  us  !  " 
say  Punch, '  and  the  modern  evangelical.  Flaw  he  had,  such 
as  wisest  men  are  not  unliable  to,  with  the  strongest — Solomon, 
Samson,  Hercules,  Merlin  the  Magician. 

Liking  pretty  things,  how  could  he  help  liking  pretty  la- 
dies ?  He  married  a  Greek  maid,  who  came  with  new  and 
strange  light  on  Venetian  eyes,  and  left  wild  fame  of  herself  : 
how,  every  morning,  she  sent  her  handmaidens  to  gather  the 
dew  for  her  to  wash  with,  waters  of  earth  being  not  pure 
enough.  So,  through  lapse  of  fifteen  hundred  years,  de- 
scended into  her  Greek  heart  that  worship  in  the  Temple  of 
the  Dew. 

Of  this  queen's  extreme  luxury,  and  the  miraculousness  of 

1  Epitaph  on  the  Bishop  of  Winchester  (Wilberf  orce) ;  see  Fors,  Letter 
XLIL,  p.  210. 


j)rviN/-:  niGiiT.  <^>l 

it  iu  tlio  (yes  of  simple  Venice,  many  traditions  are  current 
among  later  historians;  which,  nevertheless,  I  find  resolvn 
themselves,  on  closer  inquiry,  into  an  appalled  record  of  tli 
fact  that  she  would  actually  not  eat  her  meat  \vith  her  fingers, 
but  appHed  it  to  her  mouth  with  "  certain  two-pronged  instrn- 
ments"'  (of  gold,  indeed,  but  the  luxurious  sin,  in  Venetiai 
eyes,  was  evidently  not  in  the  metal,  but  the  fork) ;  and  thai 
she  indulged  herself  greatly  in  the  use  of  perfumes :  esjoecially 
about  her  bed,  for  which  whether  to  praise  her,  as  one  would 
an  Enghsh  housewife  for  sheets  laid  up  in  lavender,  or  to  cry 
haro  upon  her,  as  the  ''  stranger  who  flattereth,"  ^  I  know 
not,  until  I  know  better  the  reason  of  the  creation  of  perfume 
itself,  and  of  its  use  in  Eastern  rehgion  and  delight — "All thy 
garments  smell  of  myrrh,  aloes,  and  cassia,  out  of  the  ivory 
palaces  w^hereby  thou  hast  made  me  glad  " — fading  and  cor- 
rupting at  last  into  the  incense  of  the  mass,  and  the  extrait  de 
MiUe-Jieurs  of  Bond  Street.  What  I  do  know  is,  that  there 
was  no  more  sacred  sight  to  me,  in  ancient  Florence,  than  the 
Spezieria  of  the  Monks  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  with  its 
precious  vials  of  sweet  odors,  each  illuminated  with  the  little 
picture  of  the  flower  from  which  it  had  truly  been  distilled 
— and  yet,  that,  in  its  loaded  air  one  remembered  that  the 
flowers  had  grown  in  the  fields  of  the  Decameron. 

But  this  also  I  know,  and  more  surely,  that  the  beautiful 
work   done   in  St.  Mark's  during  the  Greek  girl's  reign  in 
Venice  first  interpreted  to  her  people's  hearts,  and  made  legi 
ble  to  their  eyes,  the  law  of  Christianity  in  its  eternal  harmoii 
with  the  laws  of  the  Jew  and  of  the  Greek  :  and  gave  them  the 
glories  of  Venetian  art  in  true  inheritance  from  the  angels  o^ 
that  Athenian  Bock,  above  which  Ion  spread  his  starry  tape 
try,^  and  under  whose  shadow  his  mother  had  gathered  tl 
crocus  in  the  dow. 

^    '   V  ..,  .,   .;.^... .   ,.  ...    ;....„,  :,...,   ..,  a    liuibu.sdiim    fiiscinulis   aureis   li 
bidentibus  suo  ori  applicabat.''     (Petrus  Daini anus,  quoted  by  Dandolo.) 

^  Proverbs  vii. ,  5  and  17. 

^  I  have  myself  learned  more  of  the  real  meaning  of  Greek  myt! 
from  Euripides  tliau  from  any  <ither  Greek  writer,  except  Pindar,     liin 
I  do  not  at  present  know   of  any   English  rhythm   interpreting  hi.i;i 


62  ST.  MARK'S   REST, 

CHAPTER  Vni. 

THE   EEQUIEM. 

1.  As  I  re-r^ad  the  description  I  gave,  thirty  years  since, 
of  St.  Mark's  Church  ; — much  more  as  I  remember,  forty 
years  since,  and  before,  the  first  happy  hour  spent  in  trying 
to  paint  a  piece  of  it,  with  my  six-o'clock  breakfast  on  the  httle 
cafe  table  beside  me  on  the  pavement  in  the  morning  shadow, 
I  am  struck,  almost  into  silence,  by  wonder  at  my  own  pert 
little  Protestant  mind,  which  never  thought  for  a  moment  of 
asking  what  the  Church* had  been  built  for! 

Tacitly  and  complacently  assuming  that  I  had  had  the  en- 
tire truth  of  God  preached  to  me  in  Beresford  Cha23el  in  the 
Walworth  Eoad, — recognizing  no  possible  Christian  use  or 
propriety  in  any  other  sort  of  chapel  elsewhere  ;  and  per- 
ceiving, in  this  bright  phenomenon  before  me,  nothing  of 
more  noble  function  than  might  be  in  some  new  and  radiant 
sea-shell,  thrown  up  for  me  on  the  sand ; — nay,  never  once  so 
much  as  thinking,  of  the  fair  shell  itself,  ''Who  built  its 
domed  whorls,  then  ?  "  or  "  What  manner  of  creature  lives  in 

rightly — these  poor  sapless  measures  must  serve  my  turn — (Woodhull's  i 
1778.) 

''The  sacred  tapestry 

Then  taking  from  the  treasures  of  the  God, 

He  cover'd  o'er  the  whole,  a  wondrous  sight 

To  all  beholders  :  first  he  o'er  the  roof 

Threw  robes,  which.  Hercules,  the  son  of  Jove, 

To  Phoebus  at  his  temple  brought,  the  spoils 

Of  vanquished  Amazons  ; 

On  which  these  pictures  by  the  loom  were  wrought ; 

Heaven  in  its  vast  circumference  all  the  stars 

Assembling  ;  there  his  courses  too  the  Sun 

Impetuous  drove,  till  ceas'd  his  waning  flame, 

And  with  him  drew  in  his  resplendent  train, 

Vesper^s  clear  light ;  then  clad  in  sable  garb 

Night  hastened  ;  hastening  siars  accompanied 

Their  Goddess  ;  through  mid-air  the  Pleiades, 

And  with  his  falchion  arm'd,  Orion  mov'd. 

But  the  sides  he  covered 


rilE  llEQUIEM. 

the  inside?"     Much  less  ever  asking,  "^Yho  is  lying  dead 
therein  ?  " 

2.  A  marvellous  thing — the  Protestant  mind  1  Don't  think 
I  speak  as  a  Roman  Catholic,  good  reader :  I  am  a  mere  wan- 
dering Ai-ab,  if  that  will  less  alarm  you,  seeking  but  my  cup 
of  cold  water  in  the  desert ;  and  I  speak  only  as  an  Ai*ab,  or 
an  Indian, — with  faint  hope  of  ever  seeing  the  ghost  of 
Laughing  Water.  A  marvellous  thing,  nevertheless,  I  repeat 
— this  Protestant  mind !  Down  in  Brixton  churchyard,  all 
the  fine  people  lie  inside  railings,  and  their  relations  expect 
the  passers-by  to  acknowledge  reverently  who's  there  : — nay, 
only  last  year,  in  my  o^vn  Cathedral  churchyard  of  Oxford,  I 
saw  the  new  grave  of  a  young  girl  fenced  about  duly  with 
cai'ved  stone,  and  overlaid  with  flowers ;  and  thought  no 
shame  to  kneel  for  a  minute  or  two  at  the  foot  of  it, — though 
there  were  several  good  Protestant  persons  standing  by. 

But  the  old  leaven  is  yet  so  strong  in  me  that  I  am  very  shy 
of  being  caught  by  any  of  my  country  people  kneeling  near 
St.  Mark's  grave. 

*' Because — you  know — it's  all  nonsense :  it  isn't  St.  Mark's 

With  yet  more  tapestry,  tlie  Barbaric  fleet 
To  tliat  of  Greece  opposed,  was  there  display'd  ; 
Followed  a  monstrous  brood,  half  horse,  half  man, 
The  Thracian  monarch's  furious  steed  subdu'd, 
And  lion  of  NemsEa.'' 


*' .     .     .     Underneath  those  craggy  rocks, 

North  of  Minerva's  citadel  (the  kings 

Of  Athens  call  them  Macra),     .     . 

Thou  cam'st,  resplendent  with  thy  golden  hair, 

As  I  the  crocus  gathered,  in  my  robe 

Each  vivid  flower  assembling,  to  compose 

Garlands  of  fragrance." 

Tlie  composition  of  fragrant  garlands  out  of  crocuses  being  howev* 
Mr.  Michael  WoodhulVs  improvement  on  Euripides,    Creusa's  wordsa: 
literally,  **Thou  camest,  thy  hair  flashing  with  gold,  as  I  let  fall  the  cro 
cus  petals,  gleaming  gold  back  again,  into  my  robe  at  my  bosom."    Into 
the  folds  of  it.  across  her  breast ;  as  an  English  girl  would  liave  lei 
them  fall  into  her  lap. 


and  never  was/' — say  my  intellectual  English  knot  of  shocked 
friends. 

I  suppose  one  must  allow  much  to  modern  English  zeal  for 
genuineness  in  all  commercial  articles.  Be  it  so.  "Whether 
God  ever  gave  the  Venetians  what  they  thought  He  had  given, 
does  not  matter  to  us  ;  He  gave  them  at  least  joy  and  peace  in 
their  imagined  treasure,  more  than  we  have  in  our  real  ones. 

And  he  gave  them  the  good  heart  to  build  this  chapel,  over 
the  cherished  gi^ave,  and  to  write  on  the  walls  of  it,  St.  Mark's 
gospel,  for  all  eyes, — and,  so  far  as  their  power  went,  for  all 
time. 

3.  But  it  was  long  before  I  learned  to  read  that ;  and  even 
when,  with  Lord  Lindsay's  first  help,  I  had  begun  spelling  it 
out, — the  old  Protestant  palsy  still  froze  my  heart,  though  my 
eyes  were  unsealed  ;  and  the  preface  to  the  Stones  of  Venice 
was  spoiled,  in  the  very  centre  of  its  otherwise  good  work  by 
that  blunder,  which  I've  left  standing  in  all  its  shame,  and 
with  its  hat  oE — like  Dr.  Johnson  repentant  in  Lichfield 
Market, — only  putting  the  note  to  it ''  Fool  that  I  was !  "  (page 
5)/  I  fancied  actually  that  the  main  function  of  Si  Mark's 
was  no  more  than  our  St.  George's  at  Windsor,  to  be  the  pri- 
vate chapel  of  the  king  and  his  Imights  ; — a  blessed  function 
that  also,  but  how  much  lower  than  the  other  ? 

4.  "  Cliiesa  Ducalk"  It  never  entered  my  heart  once  to 
think  that  there  was  a  greater  Duke  than  her  Doge,  for  Venice  ; 
and  that  she  built,  for  her  two  Dukes,  each  their  palace,  side 
by  side.  The  palace  of  the  hving,  and  of  the, — Dead, — was 
he  then — the  other  Duke  ? 

"Viva  san  Marco." 

You  wretched  little  cast-iron  gaspipe  of  a  cockney  that  you 
are,  who  iiDsist  that  your  soul's  your  own,  (see  "  Punch  ^'  for 
le5th  March,  187^,  on  the  duties  of  Lent,)  as  if  anybody  else 

'  Scott  liimself  (God  knows  I  say  it  sorrowfully,  and  not  to  excuse  my 
own  error,  but  to  prevent  his  from  doing  more  miscliief,)  lias  made  just 
the  same  mistake,  but  more  grossly  and  fatally,  in  the  character  given 
to  the  Venetian  Procurator  in  the  '^'  Talisman."  His  error  is  more 
shameful,  because  he  has  confused  the  institutions  of  Venice  in  the  fif- 
teenth centurv  with  those  of  the  twelfth. 


ciiles,  and  plasm,  and  general  mess  of  the  making  of  you,  to  feel 
for  an  instant  what  that  cry  once  meant,  upon  the  lij^s  of  men  ? 

Viva,  Italia  !  you  may  still  hear  that  cry  sometimes,  though 
she  lies  dead  enough.  Viva,  Vittor — Pisani ! — perhaps  also 
tliat  cry,  yet  again. 

But  the  answer, — "  Not  Pisani,  but  St.  Mark,"  when  will 
you  hear  that  again,  nowadays  ?  Yet  when  those  bronze  horses 
were  won  by  the  Bosphorus,  it  was  St.  Mark's  standard,  not 
Henry  Dandolo's,  that  was  first  planted  on  the  tower  of  By- 
zantium,— and  men  believed — by  his  own  hand.  Wliile  yet 
his  body  lay  here  at  rest :  and  this,  its  requiem  on  the  golden 
scroll,  was  then  already  written  over  it — in  Hebrew,  and  Greek, 
and  Latin. 

In  Hebrew,  by  the  words  of  the  prophets  of  Israel. 

In  Greek,  by  every  effort  of  the  building  laborer's  hand, 
and  vision  to  his  eyes. 

In  Latin,  with  the  rhythmic  verse  which  Virgil  had  taught, 
— calm  as  the  flowing  of  Mincio. 

But  if  you  will  read  it,  you  must  understand  now,  once 
for  all,  the  method  of  utterance  in  Greek  art, — here,  and  in 
Greece,  and  in  Ionia,  and  the  isles,  from  its  first  days  to  this 
very  hour. 

5.  I  gave  you  the  bas-relief  of  the  twelve  sheep  and  little 
ca25rioling  lamb  for  a  general  type  of  all  Byzantine  ai*t,  to  fix 
in  your  mind  at  once,  respecting  it,  that  its  intense  first  char- 
acter is  symboUsm.  The  thing  represented  means  more  than 
itself, — is  a  sign,  or  letter,  more  than  an  image. 

And  this  is  true,  not  of  Byzantine  art  only,  but  of  all  Greek 
art,  pur  sang.  Let  us  leave,  to-day,  the  narrow  and  degrad- 
ing word  "Byzantine."  There  is  but  one  Greek  school,  from 
Homer's  day  down  to  the  Doge  Selvo's ;  and  these  St.  Mark's 
mosaics  are  as  truly  wrought  in  tlie  power  of  Daedalus,  with 
the  Greek  constructive  instinct,  and  in  the  power  of  Athena, 
mtli  the  Greek  religious  soul,  as  ever  chest  of  Cypselus  or 
shaft  of  Erechtheum.  And  therefore,  whatever  is  represented 
here,  be  it  flower  or  rock,  animal  or  man,  means  more  than  it 
is  in  itself.     "^'^^  -i-<.-   fiw>..,.  f^.v^lv;^  ;,.,.. .....,.^  .,..,,11,,  ^i-^..-... 


Cy'o  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

— but  the  twelve  voices  of  the  gospel  of  heaven ; — not  palm- 
trees,  these  shafts  of  shooting  stem  and  beaded  fruit, — but 
the  living  grace  of  God  in  the  heart,  springing  up  in  joy  at 
Christ's  coming  ; — not  a  king,  merely,  this  crowned  creature 
in  his  sworded  state, — but  the  justice  of  God  in  His  eternal 
Law ;- — not  a  queen,  nor  a  maid  only,  this  Madonna  in  her 
purple  shade, — but  the  love  of  God  poured  forth,  in  the  Avon- 
derfulness  that  passes  the  love  of  w^oman.  She  may  forget — 
yet  will  I  not  forget  thee. 

6.  And  in  this  function  of  his  art,  remember,  it  does  not 
matter  to  the  Greek  how  far  his  image  be  perfect  or  not. 
That  it  should  be  understood  is  enough, — if  it  can  be  beauti- 
ful also,  well ;  but  its  function  is  not  beauty,  but  instruction. 
You  cannot  have  purer  examples  of  Greek  art  than  the  draw- 
ings on  any  good  vase  of  the  Marathonian  time.  Black  figures 
on  a  red  ground, — a  few  white  scratches  through  them,  mark- 
ing the  joints  of  their  armor  or  the  folds  of  their  robes, — 
white  circles  for  eyes, — pointed  pyramids  for  beards, — you 
don't  suppose  that  in  these  the  Greek  workman  thought  he 
had  given  the  likeness  of  gods  ?  Yet  here,  to  his  imagination, 
were  Athena,  Poseidon,  and  Herakles, — and  all  the  powers 
that  guarded  his  land,  and  cleansed  his  soul,  and  led  him  in 
the  way  everlasting. 

7.  And  the  wider  your  knowledge  extends  over  the  distant 
days  and  homes  of  sacred  art,  the  more  constantly  and  clearly 
you  will  trace  the  rise  of  its  symbolic  function,  from  the 
rudest  fringe  of  racing  deer,  or  couch  ant  leopards,  scratched 
on  some  ill-kneaded  piece  of  clay,  when  men  had  yet  scarcely 
left  their  own  cave-couchant  life, — up  to  the  throne  of  Cima- 
bue's  Madonna.  All  forms,  and  ornaments,  and  images,  have 
a  moral  meaning  as  a  natural  one.  Yet  out  of  all,  a  restricted 
number,  chosen  for  an  alphabet,  are  recognized  always  as 
given  letters,  of  which  the  familiar  scripture  is  adopted  by 
generation  after  generation. 

8.  You  had  best  begin  reading  the  scripture  of  St.  Mark's 
on  the  low  cupolas  of  the  baptistery, — entering,  as  I  asked 
you  many  a  day  since,  to  enter,  under  the  tomb  of  the  Doge 
Andrea  Dandolo. 


IjqUIEM.  ♦  ' 

You  see,  the  little  chamber  consists  essentially  of  two  parts, 
each  with  its  low  cupola  :  one  containing  the  Font,  the  other 
the  Altar. 

The  one  is  significant  of  Baptism  with  water  unto  repentance. 

The  other  of  Kesurrection  to  newness  of  life. 

Burial,  in  baptism  with  w^ater,  of  the  lusts  of  the  flesh. 
Eesurrection,  in  baptism  by  the  spirit — hero,  and  now,  to  tli( 
beginning  of  life  eternal. 

Both  the  cupolas  have  Christ  for  their  central  figure  :  sur- 
rounded, in  that  over  the  font,  by  the  Apostles  baptizing  with 
water ;  in  that  over  the  altar,  surrounded  by  the  Powers  of 
Heaven,  baptizing  with  the  Holy  Ghost  and  with  fire.  Each 
of  the  Apostles,  over  the  font,  is  seen  baptizing  in  the  country 
to  which  he  is  sent. 

Their  legends,  written  above  them,  begin  over  the  door  of 
entrance  into  the  church,  with  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  and 
end  with  St.  Mark — the  order  of  all  being  as  follows  : — 

St.  John  the  Evangelist  baptizes  in  Ephesus. 

St.  James Judsea. 

St.  Philip Phrygia. 

St.  Matthew Ethioj)ia. 

St.  Simon Egypt. 

St.  Thomas India. 

St.  Andrew Achaia. 

I  St.  Peter Pome. 

St.  Bartholomew  (legend  indecij^herable). 

St.  Thaddeus " Mesopotamia. 

St.  Matthias Palestine. 

St.  Mark Alexandria. 

Over  the  door  is  Herod's  feast.  Herodias'  daughter  dances 
with  St.  John  Baptist's  head  in  the  charger,  on  her  head, — 
•^  simply  the  translation  of  any  Greek  maid  on  f^  r^v-vi'  voc:^ 
bearing  a  pitcher  of  water  on  her  head. 

I  am  not  sure,  but  I  believe  the  picture  is  meant  to  repix  - 
sent  the  two  separate  times  of  Herod's  dealing  with  St.  John  : 
and  that  the  figure  at  the  end  of  tlie  table  is  in  the  former 
time,  St.  John  saying  to  him,  "  It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  to 
have  her." 


08  ST.  3IAIUCS  REST. 

9.  Pass  on  now  into  tlie  farther  chapel  under  the  darker 
dome. 

Darker,  and  very  dark  ; — to  my  old  eyes,  scarcely  decipher- 
able ; — to  yours,  if  young  and  bright,  it  should  be  beautiful, 
for  it  is  indeed  the  origin  of  all  those  golden-domed  back- 
grounds of  Bellini,  and  Cima,  and  Carpaccio  ;  itself  a  Greek 
vase,  but  with  new  Gods.  That  ten-winged  cherub  in  the  re- 
cess of  it,  behind  the  altar,  has  written  on  the  circle  on  its 
breast,  "  Fulness  of  Wisdom."    It  is  the  type  of  the  Breath  of 

UJ  -^ 

y  ^ 

the  Spirit.  But  it  was  once  a  Greek  Harpy,  and  its  wasted 
limbs  remain,  scarcely  yet  clothed  with  flesh  from  the  claws 
of  birds  that  they  were. 

At  the  sides  of  it  are  the  two  powers  of  the  Seraphim  and 
Thrones :  the  Seraphim  with  sword ;  the  Thrones  (tkonis), 
with  Fleur-de-lys  sceptre, — lovely. 

Opposite,  on  the  arch  by  which  you  entered  are  The  Vir- 
tues, (VIRTUTES). 

A  dead  body  lies  under  a  rock,  out  of  which  spring  two  tor- 
rents— one  of  water,  one  of  fire.  The  Angel  of  the  Virtues 
calls  on  the  dead  to  rise. 

Then  the  circle  is  thus  completed  : 


THE  REQUIEM.  00 

1,  being  the  Wisdom  angel ;  8,  the  Seraphim  ;  2,  the  Thrones ; 
jind  5,  the  Virtues.  3.  Dominations.  4.  Angels,  f*.  f  Poten- 
tates.    7.  Princes:  the  last  with  hehn  and  sworJ. 

Above,  Chi'ist  Himself  ascends,  borne  in  a  whirlwind  of 
angels  ;  and,  as  the  vaults  of  Bellini  andCarpaccio  are  only  the 
;iinplification  of  the  Harpy- Vault,  so  the  Paradise  of  Tintoret 
is  only  the  final  fulfilment  of  the  thought  in  this  narrow  cupola. 

10.  At  your  left  hand,  as  you  look  tow^ards  the  altar,  is  the 
most  beautiful  symbolic  design  of  the  Baptist's  death  that  I 
know  in  Italy.  Herodias  is  enthroned,  not  merely  as  queen  at 
Herod's  table,  but  high  and  alone,  the  t^^pe  of  the  Power  of 
evil  in  pride  of  womanhood,  through  the  past  and  future 
world,  until  Time  shall  be  no  longer. 

On  her  right  hand  is  St.  John's  execution  ;  on  her  left,  the 
Christian  disciples,  marked  by  their  black  crosses,  bear  his 
body  to  the  tomb. 

It  is  a  four-square  canopy,  round  arched ;  of  the  exact  type 
of  that  in  the  museum  at  Perugia,  given  to  the  ninth  cen- 
tury ;  but  that  over  Herodias  is  round-trefoiled,  and  there  is 
no  question  but  that  these  mosaics  are  not  eaiiier  than  the 
thirteenth  century. 

And  yet  they  are  still  absolutely  Greek  in  all  modes  of 
thought,  and  forms  of  tradition.  The  Fountains  of  fire  and 
water  are  merely  forms  of  the  Chimera  and  the  Peirene  ;  and 
the  maid  dancing,  though  a  princess  of  the  thirteenth  century 
in  sleeves  of  ermine,  is  yet  the  phantom  of  some  sweet  water- 
carrier  from  an  Arcadian  spring. 

11.  These  mosaics  are  the  only  ones  in  the  interior  of  the 
church  which  belong  to  the  time  (1204)  when  its  facade  was 
completed  by  the  placing  of  the  Greek  hoi-ses  over  its  central 
:irch,  and  illumined  by  the  lovely  series  of  mosaics  still  rep- 
resented in  Gentile  Bellini's  pictures,  of  which  only  one  now 
remains.  That  one,  left  nearly  intact— as  Fate  has  willed — 
rei)resents  the  church  itself  so  completed  ;  and  the  bearing  of 
the  body  of  St.  Mark  into  its  gates,  with  all  the  great  kings 
and  queens  who  have  visited  his  shrine,  standing  to  look  on  ; 
not  conceived,  mind  you,  as  present  vX  any  actual  timr^  1  "^  •  •? 
always  looking  on  in  theii*  heju'ta 


<0  sr.  MARK'S  BEST. 

12.  I  say  it  is  left  nearly  intact.  The  three  figures  on  the 
extreme  right  are  restorations  ;  and  if  the  reader  will  carefully 
study  the  difference  between  these  and  the  rest  ;  and  note 
how  all  the  faults  of  the  old  work  are  caricatured,  and  every 
one  of  its  beauties  lost — so  that  the  faces  which  in  the  older 
figures  are  grave  or  sw^eet,  are  in  these  three  new  ones  as  of 
staring  dolls, — he  will  know%  once  for  all,  what  kind  of  thanks 
he  owes  to  the  tribe  of  Restorers — here  and  elsewhere. 

Please  note,  farther,  that  at  this  time  the  church  had  round 
arches  in  the  second  story,  (of  which  the  shells  exist  yet,)  but 
]io  pinnacles  or  marble  fringes.  All  that  terminal  filigree  is  of  a 
far  later  age.  I  take  the  fa9ade  as  you  see  it  stood — just  after 
1204 — thus  perfected.  And  I  will  tell  you,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  meaning  of  it,  and  of  what  it  led  to,  piece  by  piece. 

13.  I  begin  with  the  horses, — those  I  saw  in  my  dream  in 
1871, — "putting  on  their  harness."  See  ''Ariadne  Floren- 
tina,"  p.  203. 

These  are  the  sign  to  Europe  of  the  destruction  of  the 
Greek  Empire  by  the  Latin.  They  are  chariot  horses — the 
horses  of  the  Greek  quadriga, — and  they  were  the  trophies  of 
Henry  Dandolo.  That  is  all  you  need  know  of  them  just 
now  ;  more,  I  hope,  hereafter  ;  but  you  must  learn  the  mean- 
ing of  a  Greek  quadriga  first.  They  stand  on  the  great  outer 
archivolt  of  the  facade  :  its  ornaments,  to  the  front,  are  of 
leafage  closing  out  of  spirals  into  balls  interposed  betw^een  the 
figures  of  eight  Proj)hets  (or  Patriarchs?)— Christ  in  their 
midst  on  the  keystone.  No  one  would  believe  at  first  it  was 
thirteenth-century  work,  so  delicate  and  rich  as  it  looks  ;  nor 
is  there  anything  else  like  it  that  I  know,  in  Europe,  of  the 
date :  but  pure  thirteenth-century  work  it  is,  of  rarest  chisel- 
ling. I  have  cast  two  of  its  balls  with  their  surrounding  leaf- 
age, for  St.  George's  Museum  ;  the  most  instructive  pieces  of 
sculpture  of  all  I  can  ever  show  there. 

14.  Nor  can  you  at  all  know  how  good  it  is,  unless  you 
will  learn  to  draw :  but  some  things  concerning  it  may  bo 
seen,  by  attentive  eyes,  which  are  worth  the  dwelling  upon. 

You  see,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  outer  foliage  is  all  of 
one   kind — pure  Greek  Acanthus, — not   in    the    least    trans- 


'jiir.  nK()U}KM.  71 

forming  itself  into  iv}%  or  L,  .  (rusting  wholly  for  its 

beauty  to  the  varied  play  of  its  own  narrow  and  pointed  lobes. 
Narrow  and  pointed — but  not  jagged  ;  for  the  jagged  form 
of  Acanthus,  look  at  the  two  Jean  d'Acre  columns,  and  return 
ti)  this — you  will  then  feel  why  I  call  it  inire  ;  it  is  as  nearly 
IS  possible  the  acanthus  of  early  Corinth,  only  more  flexible, 
lud  with  more  incipient  blending  of  the  character  of  the  vine 
which  is  used  for  the  central  bosses.  You  see  that  each  leaf 
of  these  last  touches  with  its  point  a  stellar  knot  of  inwoven 
braid  ;.  (compare  the  ornament  round  the  low  archivolt  of  the 
]^orch  on  your  right  below),  the  outer  acanthus  folding  all  in 
-piral  whorls. 

15.  Now  all  thirteenth-century  ornament  of  every  nation 
runs  much  into  sjDirals,  and  Irish  and  Scandinavian  earher 
lecoration  into  little  else.     But  these  spirals  are  different  from 

theirs.  The  Northern  spiral  is  always  elastic — like  that  of  a 
watch-spring.  The  Greek  spiral,  drifted  like  that  of  a  whirl- 
pool, or  whirlwind.  It  is  always  an  eddy  or  vortex — not  a 
living  rod,  like  the  point  of  a  young  fern. 

At  least,  not  living  its  own  life — but  under  another  life. 
It  is  under  the  power  of  the  Queen  of  the  Air  ;  the  power  also 
that  is  over  the  Sea,  and  over  the  human  mind.  The  first 
leaves  I  ever  drew  from  St.  Mark's  were  those  drifted  under 
the  breathing  of  it ;  ^  these  on  its  uppermost  cornice,  far  love- 
lier, are  the  final  perfection  of  the  Ionic  spiral,  and  of  the 
thought  in  the  temple  of  the  Winds. 

But  perfected  under  a  new  influence.     I  said  there  was 

nothing  like  them  (that  I  knew)  in  European  architecture. 

>iit  there  is,  in  Eastern.     They  are  only  the  amplification  of 

the  cornice  over  the  arches  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem, 

16.  I  have  been  speaking  hitherto  of  the  front  of  the  arch 
only.     Underneath  it,  the  sculpture  is  equally  rich,  and  much 

iiore  animated.  It  represents, — "What  think  you,  or  what 
vv^ould  you  have,  good  reader,  if  you  were  yourself  designing 
tlie  central  archivolt  of  your  native  city,  to  companion,  and 

ven  partly  to  sustain,  the  stones  on  which  those  eight  Patri- 

rchs  were  carved — and  Clmst? 


72  ST.  3IARICS  REST. 

The  great  men  of  your  city,  I  suppose, — or  tlie  good  wo- 
men of  it  ?  or  the  squires  round  about  it  ?  with  the  Master  of 
the  hounds  in  the  middle  ?  or  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  ? 
Well.  That  last  guess  comes  near  the  Venetian  mind,  only 
it  is  not  my  Lord  Mayor,  in  his  robes  of  state,  nor  the  Cor- 
poration at  their  city  feast ;  but  the  mere  Craftsmen  of  Ven- 
ice— the  Trades,  that  is  to  say,  depending  on  handicraft,  be- 
ginning with  the  shipwrights,  and  going  on  to  the  givers  of 
wine  and  bread — ending  with  the  carpenter,  the  smith,  and 
the  fisherman. 

Beginning,  I  say,  if  read  from  left  to  right,  (north  to  south, ) 
with  the  shipwrights  ;  but  under  them  is  a  sitting  figure, 
though  sitting,  yet  supported  by  crutches.  I  cannot  read 
this  symbol  :  one  may  fancy  many  meanings  in  it, — but  I  do 
not  trust  fancy  in  such  matters.  Unless  I  know  what  a  sym- 
bol means,  I  do  not  tell  you  my  own  thoughts  of  it. 

17.  If,  however,  we  read  from  right  to  left,  Orientalwise, 
the  order  would  be  more  intelligible.     It  is  then  thus  : 

1.  Fishing. 

2.  Forging. 

3.  Sawing.     Rough  carpentry  ? 

4.  Cleaving  wood  with  axe.     Wheelwright? 

5.  Cask  and  tub  making. 

6.  Barber-surgery. 

7.  Weaving. 

Keystone — Christ  the  Lamb  ;  i.  e.,  in  humiliation. 

8.  Masonry. 

9.  Pottery. 

10.  The  Butcher. 

11.  The  Baker. 

12.  The  Vintner. 

13.  The  Shipwright.     And 
U.  The  rest  of  old  age  ? 

18.  But  it  is  not  here  the  place  to  describe  these  carvings 
to  you, — there  are  none  others  like-them  in  Venice  except  the 
bases  of  the  piazzetta  shafts  ;  and  there  is  little  work  like  them 


THE  liEQUIEM.  73 

elsewhere,  pure  realistic  sculpture  of  the  twelfth  and  thu-- 
teeuth  centuries  ;  I  may  have  much  to  say  of  them  in  their 
clay — not  now. 

Under  these  labourers  you  may  read,  in  large  letters,  a 
piece  of  history  from  the  Vienna  Morning  Post — or  whatever 
the  paper  was — of  the  year  1815,  with  which  we  are  not  con- 
cerned, nor  need  anybody  else  be  so,  to  the  end  of  time. 

Not  with  that ;  nor  with  the  mosaic  of  the  vault  beneath — 
flaunting  glare  of  Venetian  art  in  its  ruin.  No  vestige  of  old 
work  remains  till  we  come  to  those  steps  of  stone  ascending 
on  each  side  over  the  inner  archivolt ;  a  strange  method  of 
enclosing  its  curve  ;  but  done  with  special  purpose.  If  you 
look  in  the  Bellini  picture,  you  will  see  that  these  steps 
formed  the  rocky  midst  of  a  mountain  which  rose  over  them 
for  the  gi-ound,  in  the  old  mosaic  ;  the  Mount  of  the  Beati- 
tudes. And  on  the  vault  above,  stood  Christ  blessing  for  ever 
— not  as  standing  on  the  Mount,  but  supported  above  it  by 
Angels, 

19,  And  on  the  archivolt  itself  were  carved  the  Virtues — 
with,  it  is  said,  the  Beatitudes  ;  but  I  am  not  sure  yet  of  any- 
thing in  this  archivolt,  except  that  it  is  entirely  splendid 
twelfth-century  sculpture.  I  had  the  separate  figures  cast  for 
my  English  museum,  and  put  off  the  examination  of  them 
when  I  was  overworked.  The  Fortitude,  Justice,  Faith,  and 
Temperance  are  clear  enough  on  the  right— and  the  keystone 
figure  is  Constancy,  but  I  am  sure  of  nothing  else  yet :  tL( 
less  that  interpretation  partly  deiDended  on  the  scrolls,  ot 
which  the  letters  were  gilded,  not  carved  : — the  figures  also 
gilded,  in  Bellini's  time. 

Then  the  innermost  archivolt  of  all  is  of  mere  twelfth-cen- 
tury grotesque,  unworthy  of  its  place.  But  there  were  so 
many  entrances  to  the  atrium  that  the  builders  did  not  care 
to  trust  special  teaching  to  any  one,  even  the  central,  except 
as  a  part  of  the  fa^*ade.  The  atrium,  or  outer  cloister  itself, 
was  the  real  porch  of  the  temple.  And  that  tliey  covered  with 
as  close  scripture  as  they  could — the  Creation   aiul 

Book  of  Genesis  pictured  on  it. 

20.  These  ai*e  the  mosaics  usually  attributed  to  the  Dog' 


74  ST.  IfARK'S  REST. 

Selvo  :  I  cannot  myself  date  any  mosaics  securely  with  pre- 
cision, never  having  studied  the  technical  structure  of  them  ; 
and  these  also  are  different  from  the  others  of  St.  Mark's  in 
being  more  Norman  than  Byzantine  in  manner ;  and  in  an 
agly  admittance  and  treatment  of  nude  form,  which  I  find 
only  elsewhere  in  manuscripts  of  the  tenth  and  eleventh  cen- 
turies of  the  school  of  Monte  Cassino  and  South  Italy.  On 
the  other  hand,  they  possess  some  qualities  of  thought  and 
invention  almost  in  a  subhme  degree.  But  I  believe  Selvo 
had  better  work  done  under  him  than  these.  Better  work  at 
all  events,  you  shall  now  see — if  you  will.  You  must  get  hold 
of  the  man  who  keeps  sweeping  the  dust  about,  in  St.  Mark's ; 
very  thankful  he  will  be,  for  a  lii'a,  to  take  you  up  to  the  gal- 
lery on  the  right-hand  side,  (south,  of  St.  Mark's  interior  ;) 
from  which  gallery,  where  it  turns  into  the  south  transept, 
you  may  see,  as  well  as  it  is  possible  to  see,  the  mosaic  of  the 
central  dome. 

21.  Christ  enthroned  on  a  rainbow,  in  a  sphere  supported 
by  four  flying  angels  underneath,  forming  white  pillars  of 
caryatid  mosaic.  Between  the  windows,  the  twelve  apostles, 
and  the  Madonna, — alas,  the  head  of  this  principal  figure 
frightfully  "restored,"  and  I  think  the  greater  part  of  the 
central  subject.  Bound  the  circle  enclosing  Christ  is  written, 
"  Ye  men  of  Galilee,  why  stand  ye  at  gaze  ?  This  Son  of  God, 
Jesus,  so  taken  from  you,  departs  that  He  may  be  the  arbiter 
of  the  earth  :  in  charge  of  judgment  He  comes,  and  to  give  the 
laws  that  ought  to  be.'' 

22.  Such,  you  see,  the  central  thought  of  Venetian  worship. 
Not  that  we  shall  leave  the  world,  but  that  our  Master  will 
come  to  it :  and  such  the  central  hope  of  Venetian  worship, 
that  He  shall  come  to  judge  the  world  indeed  ;  not  in  a  last 
and  destroying  judgment,  but  in  an  enduring  and  saving 
judgment,  in  truth  and  righteousness  and  peace.  Catholic 
theology  of  the  purest,  lasting  at  all  events  down  to  the  thir- 
teenth century  ;  or  as  long  as  the  Byzantines  had  influence. 
For  these  are  typical  Byzantine  concejDtions  ;  how  far  taken 
up  and  repeated  by  Italian  workers,  one  cannot  say  ;  but  in 
their  gravity  of  purpose,  meagre  thinness  of  form,  and  rigid 


THE  requtem:.  v^ 

drapery  lines,  to  be  remembered  by  you  with  distinctness  as 
♦  xpressing  the  first  school  of  design  in  Venice,  comparable  in 

;ii  instant  with  her  last  school  of  design,  by  merely  glancing 
to  the  end  of  the  north  transept,  where  that  rich  piece  of 
foHage,  full  of  patriarchs,  was  designed  by  Paul  Veronese. 
And  what  a  dirine  picture  it  might  have  been,  if  he  had  only 
minded  his  own  business,  and  let  the  mosaic  workers  mind 
theirs ! — even  now  it  is  the  only  beautiful  one  of  the  late 
niosaics,  and  shows  a  new  phase  of  the  genius  of  Veronese. 

Ml  I  want  you  to  feel,  however,  is  the  difference  of  temper 
i iom  the  time  when  people  liked  the  white  pillar-like  figures 
of  the  dome,  to  that  when  they  liked  the  dark  exuberance  of 
ihose  in  the  transept. 

23.  But  from  this  coign   of  vantage  you  may  see  much 
11  ore.     Just  opposite  you,  and  above,  in  the  arch  crossing  the 

1  Lansept  between  its  cupola  and  the  central  dome,  are  mosaics 
of  Christ's  Temptation,  and  of  his  entrance  to  Jerusalem. 
Tiie  upper  one,  of  the  Temptation,  is  entirely  characteristic  of 
the  Byzantine  mythic  manner  of  teaching.  On  the  left,  Christ 
sits  in  the  rocky  cave  which  has  sheltered  Him  for  the  forty 
days  of  fasting  :  out  of  the  rock  above  issues  a  spring — mean- 
ing that  He  drank  of  the  waters  that  spring  up  to  everlasting 
life,  of  which  whoso  drinks  shall  never  thirst ;  and  in  His 
hand  is  a  book — the  living  Word  of  God,  which  is  His  bread. 
The  Devil  holds  up  the  stones  in  his  laj). 

Next  the  temptation  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  TemjDle,  sym- 
bolic again,  wholly,  as  you  see, — in  very  deed  quite  impossi- 
l)le :  so  also  that  on  the  mountain,  where  the  treasures  of  the 
world  are,  I  think,  represented  by  the  glittering  fragments 
on  the  mountain  top.  Finally,  the  falling  Devil,  cast  down 
head-foremost  in  the  air,  and  apjiroaching  angels  in  ministry- 
ing  troops,  complete  the  stor}'. 

24.  And  on  the  whole,  these  pictures  are  entirely  represent- 
ative to  you  of  the  food  which  the  Venetian  mind  had  in  art, 
down  1o  the  day  of  the  Doge  Selvo.  Those  were  the  kind  of 
images  and  sliadows  they  lived  on  :  you  may  think  of  them 
what  you  please,  but  the  historic  fact  is,  beyond  all  possible 
debate,  that  these  thin  dry  bones  of  art  were  nourishing  meat 


TTT KrTMAJJK'S  BEST. 

to  the  Venetian  race  :  tliat  tbey  grew  and  throve  on  that  diet, 
every  day  spiritually  fatter  for  it,  and  more  comfortably  round 
in  human  soiil : — no  illustrated  papers. to  be  had,  no  Academy 
Exhibition  to  be  seen.  If  their  eyes  were  to  be  entertained 
at  all,  such  must  be  their  lugubrious  delectation  ;  pleasure 
difficult  enough  to  imagine,  but  real  and  pure,  I  doubt  not;  even 
passionate.  In  as  quite  singularly  incomprehensible  fidelity 
of  sentiment,  my  cousin's  least  baby  has  fallen  in  love  with  a 
wooden  spoon  ;  Paul  not  more  devoted  to  Virginia.  The  two 
are  inseparable  all  about  the  house,  vainly  the  unimaginative 
bystanders  endeavouring  to  perceive,  for  their  part,  any  ami- 
ableness  in  the  spoon.  But  baby  thrives  in  his  pacific  attach- 
ment,— nay,  is  under  the  most  perfect  moral  control,  pliant  as 
a  reed,  under  the  slightest  threat  of  being  parted  from  his 
spoon.  And  I  am  assured  that  the  crescent  Venetian  imagina- 
tion did  indeed  find  pleasantness  in  these  figures  ;  more  es- 
pecially,— which  is  notable — in  the  extreme  emaciation  of 
them, — a  type  of  beauty  kept  in  their  hearts  down  to  the  Vi- 
varini  days  ;  afterwards  rapidly  changing  to  a  very  opposite 
ideal  indeed. 

25.  Nor  even  in  its  most  ascetic  power,  disturbing  these 
conceptions  of  what  was  fitting  and  fair  in  their  own  persons, 
or  as  a  nation  of  fishermen.  They  have  left  us,  happily,  a 
picture  of  themselves,  at  their  greatest  time — unnoticed,  so 
far  as  I  can  read,  by  any  of  their  historians,  but  left  for  poor 
little  me  to  discover — and  that  by  chance — like  the  inscrip- 
tion on  St.  James's  of  the  Kialto. 

But  before  going  on  to  see  this,  look  behind  you,  where  you 
stand,  at  the  mosaic  on  the  west  wall  of  the  south  transept. 

It  is  not  Byzantine,  but  rude  thirteenth- century,  and  for- 
tunately left,  being  the  representation  of  an  event  of  some 
import  to  Venice,  the  recovery  of  fhe  lost  body  of  St.  Mark. 

You  may  find  the  story  told,  with  proudly  polished,  or 
loudly  impudent,  incredulity,  in  any  modern  guide-book.  I 
will  not  pause  to  speak  of  it  here,  nor  dwell,*  yet,  on  this  mo- 
saic, which  is  clearly  later  than  the  story  it  tells  by  two  hun- 
dred years.  We  will  go  on  to  the  picture  which  shows  us 
things  as  they  loere,  in  its  time. 


THE  REQUIEM.  <  i 

26.  You  must  go  round  the  transept  galleiy,  and  get  the 
'oor  opened  into  the  compartment  of  the  eastern  aisle,  in 
\\  liich  is  the  organ.     And  going  to  the  other  side  of  the  square 

tone  gallery,  and  looking  back  from  behind  the  organ,  you 
w  ill  see  opposite,  on  the  vault,  a  mosaic  of  upright  figures  in 
(h-esses  of  blue,  green,  purple,  and  white,  variously  embroid- 
<  red  with  gold. 

These  represent,  as  you  are  told  by  the  inscription  above 
them — the  Priests,  the  Clergy,  the  Doge,  and  the  people  of 
^^enice  ;  and  are  an  abstract,  at  least,  or  epitome  of  those 
personages,  as  they  were,  and  felt  themselves  to  be,  in  those 
days. 

I  beUeve,  early  twelfth-century — late  eleventh  it  might  be 
— later  twelfth  it  may  be, — it  does  not  matter  :  these  were 
the  people  of  Venice  in  the  central  time  of  her  unwearied 
life,  her  unsacrificed  honour,  her  unabated  power,  and  sacred 
faith.  Her  Doge  wears,  not  the  contracted  shell-like  cap,  but 
the  imperial  crown.  Her  priests  and  clergy  are  ahke  mitred 
— not  with  the  cloven,  but  simple,  cap,  like  the  conical  hel- 
met of  a  knight.  Her  people  are  also  her  soldiers,  and  their 
Captain  bears  his  sword,  sheathed  in  black. 

So  far  as  features  could  be  rendered  in  the  rude  time,  the 
faces  are  all  noble — (one  horribly  restored  figure  on  the  right 
shows  what  i(;nobleness,  on  this  large  scale,  modern  binitality 
and  ignorance  can  reach)  ;  for  the  most  part,  dark-eyed,  but 
ilic  Doge  brown-eyed  and  fair-haired,  the  long  tresses  falling 

li  hi^ shoulders,  and  his  beard  braided  like  that  of  an  Etrus- 
can king. 

27.  And  this  is  the  writing  over  them. 

PONTIFICES.       CliERUS.       PoPULUS.       DuX   MENTE    SERENl-. 

Tlu'  Priests,  the  Clerg}'.  the  People,  the  Duke,  serene  ^  i 
miiul. 

Most  Serene  Highnesses  of  all  the  after  Time  and  World, — 

'  The  continuing  couplet  of  monkish  Latin, 
*'  Laudibus  atque  choris 
i^ixcipiunt  dulce  canoris," 

■V    ■ ,■■-••■■  '■•—'- ■'■-.."^ 

ike  in  restoratid: 


78  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

liow  many  of  you  knew,  or  know,  what  this  Venice,  first  to 
give  the  title,  meant  by  her  Duke's  Serenity  !  and  why  she 
trusted  it  ? 

The  most  precious  "  historical  picture  "  this,  to  my  mind, 
of  any  in  worldly  gallery,  or  unworldly  cloister,  east  or  west ; 
but  for  the  present,  all  I  care  for  you  to  learn  of  it,  is  that 
these  were  the  kind  of  priests,  and  people,  and  kings,  who 
wrote  this  Eequiem  of  St.  Mark,  of  which,  now,  we  will  read 
what  more  we  may. 

28.  If  3^ou  go  up  in  front  of  the  organ,  you  may  see,  better 
than  from  below,  the  mosaics  of  the  eastern  dome. 

This  part  of  the  church  must  necessarily  have  been  first 
completed,  because  it  is  over  the  altar  and  shrine.  In  it,  the 
teaching  of  the  Mosaic  legend  begins,  and  in  a  sort  ends  ; — 
"  Christ  the  King,"  foretold  of  Prophets — declared  of  Evan- 
gelists— born  of  a  Virgin  in  due  time  ! 

But  to  understand  the  course  of  legend,  you  must  know 
wliat  the  Greek  teachers  meant  by  an  Evangelion,  as  distinct 
from  a  Prophecy.  Prophecy  is  here  thought  of  in  its  nar- 
rower sense  as  the  foretelling  of  a  good  that  is  to  be. 

But  an  Evangelion  is  the  voice  of  the  Messenger,  saying,  it 
is  here. 

And  the  four  mystic  Evangelists,  under  the  figures  of  living 
creatures,  are  not  types  merely  of  the  men  that  are  to  bring 
the  Gospel  message,  but  of  the  power  of  that  message  in  all 
Creation — so  far  as  it  was,  and  is,  spoken  in  all  living  things, 
and  as  the  Word  of  God,  which  is  Christ,  was  present,  and 
not  merely  prophesied,  in  the  Creatures  of  His  hand. 

29.  You  will  find  in  your  Murray,  and  other  illumined  writ- 
i  ings  of  the  nineteenth  century,  various  explanations  given  of 
;  the  meaning  of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark — derived,  they  occasion- 
ally mention  (nearly  as  if  it  had  been  derived  by  accident !), 
from  the  description  of  Ezekiel. '  Which,  perhaps,  you  may 
have  read  once  on  a  time,  though  even  that  is  doubtful  in 
these  blesBed  days  of  scientific  education  ; — but,  boy  or  girl, 
man  or  woman,  of  you,  not  one  in   a  thousand,  if  one,  has 

'Or,  with  still  more  enlightened  Scripture  research,  from  ''one  of 
the  visions  of  Daniel"  !      (Sketches,  etc.,  p.  18.) 


THE  REQUIEM.  70 

(  ver,  I  am  well  assured,  asked  what  was  the  use  of  Ezekiel's 
Vision,  either  to  Ezekiel,  or  to  anybody  else  ;  any  more  than 
I  used  to  think,  myself,  what  St.  Mark's  was  built  for. 

In  case  you  have  not  a  Bible  with  you,  I  must  be  tedious 
enough  to  reprint  the  essential  verses  here. 

30.  **  As  I  was  among  the  Captives  by  the  River  of  Chebar, 
the  Heavens  were  opened,  and  I  saw  visions  of  God." 

(Fugitive  at  least, — and  all  hut  captive, — by  the  River  of  the 
deep  stream, — the  Venetians  perhaps  cared  yet  to  hear  what 
he  saw.) 

"  In  the  fifth  year  of  King  Jehoiachin's  captivity,  the  word 
of  the  Lord  came  expressly  unto  Ezekiel  the  Priest." 

("We  also — we  Venetians — have  our  Pontifices  ;  we  also  t)ur 
King.     May  we  not  hear  ?) 

"And  I  looked,  and,  behold,  a  whirlwind  came  out  of  the 
north,  and  a  fire  infolding  itself.  Also  in  the  midst  thereof 
was  *  the  likeness  of  Four  Hving  Creatures. 

"And  this  was  the  aspect  of  them  ;  the  Likeness  of  a  Man 
was  upon  them. 

"  And  every  one  had  four  faces,  and  every  one  four  wings. 
And  they  had  the  hands  of  a  Man  under  their  wings.  And 
their  wings  were  stretched  upward,  two  wings  of  every  one 
were  joined  one  to  another,  and  two  covered  their  bodies. 
And  when  they  went,  I  heard  the  noise  of  their  wings,  like  the 
noise  of  great  waters,  as  the  voice  of  the  Almighty,  the  voice 
of  speech,  the  noise  of  an  Host." 

(To  us  in  Venice,  is  not  the  noise  of  the  great  waters  known 
— and  the  noise  of  an  Host  ?  May  we  hear  also  the  voice  of 
the  Almighty  ?) 

"  And  they  went  every  one  straight  forward.     Whither  the 
Spirit  was  to  go,  they  went.    And  this  was  the  likeness  of  their 
faces :  they  four  had  the  face  of  a  Man  "  (to  the  front),  "ancP 
ihe  face  of  a  Lion  on  the  right  side,  and  the  face  of  an  Ox  / 
the  left  side,  and"  (looking  back)  "the  face  of  an  Eagle."/    / 

And  not  of  an  Ape,  then,  my  beautifully-browed  cockiV 
friend  ? — the  unscientific  Prophet !     The  face  of  IVIan  ;  au 

*  What  alterations  I  makr  the  Septiiagiuty 


80  ST.  MARK'S  IlEST. 

the  wild  beasts  of  the  eartli,  and  of  the  tame,  and  of  the  bird^ 
of  the  air.     This  was  the  Vision  of  the  Glory  of  the  Lord. 

31.  "And  as  I  beheld  the  living  creatures,  behold,  07ie  wheel 
upon  the  earth,  by  the  living  creatures,  with  his  four  faces, 
.  .  .  and  their  aspect,  and  their  work,  was  as  a  wheel  in  the 
midst  of  a  wheel." 

Crossed,  that  is,  the  meridians  of  the  four  quarters  of  the 
earth.  (See  Holbein's  drawing  of  it  in  his  Old  Testament 
series.) 

"  And  the  likeness  of  the  Firmament  upon  the  heads  of  the 
living  creatures  was  as  the  colour  of  the  terrible  crystal. 

"  And  there  was  a  voice  from  the  Firmament  that  was  over 
their  heads,  when  they  stood,  and  had  let  down  their  wing^. 

"  And  above  the  Firmament  that  was  over  their  heads  was 
the  likeness  of  a  Throne  ;  and  upon  the  likeness  of  the 
Throne  was  the  likeness  of  the  Aspect  of  a  Man  above,  upon 
it. 

'^And  from  His  loins  round  about  I  saw  it  as  it  were  the 
appearance  of  fire  ;  and  it  had  brightness  round  about,  as  the 
bow  that  is  in  the  cloud  in  the  day  of  rain.  This  was  the 
appearance  of  the  likeness  of  the  Glory  of  the  Lord.  And 
when  I  saw  it,  I  fell  upon  my  face." 

32.  Can  any  of  us  do  the  like — or  is  it  worth  while  ? — 
with  only  apes'  faces  to  fall  upon,  and  the  forehead  that  re- 
fuses to  be  ashamed  ?  Or  is  there,  nowadays,  no  more  any- 
thing for  us  to  be  afraid  of,  or  to  be  thankful  for,  in  all  the 
wheels,  and  flame,  and  light,  of  earth  and  heaven  ? 

This  that  follows,  after  the  long  rebuke,  is  their  Evange- 
lion.  This  the  sum  of  the  voice  that  speaks  in  them,  (chap, 
xi.  16). 

•    *'  Therefore  say,  thus  saith  the  Lord.     Though  I  have  cast 

them  far  off  among  the  heathen,  3^et  will  I  be  to  them  as  a 

little  sanctuary  in  the  places  whither  they  shall  come. 

■^^^     *'  And  I  will  give  them  one  heart ;  and  I  will  put  a  new 

^^^'nrit  within  them  ;  and  I  will  take  the   stony  heart  out  of 

man  ;^,  flesh,  and  will  give  them  a  heart  of  flesh.     That  they 

'  Or,  NTvalk  in  my  statutes,  and  keep  mine  ordinances  and  do 

the  vision^j^^  jtj^^j  q]^qII  ]jq  ^j  people,  and  I  will  be  their  God. 


^vllecls  beside  them,  aud  the  glory  of  the  God  of  Israel  \vu 
over  them  above." 

33.  That  is  the  story  of  the  Altar- Vault  of  St.  Mark's,  oi 
which  though  much  was  gone,  yet,  when  I  was  last  in  Venice, 
much  was  left,  wholly  lovely  and  mighty.  The  principal  fig- 
m-e  of  the  Throned  Christ  was  indeed  forever  destroyed 
by  the  restorer ;  but  the  suiTounding  Prophets,  and  the 
Virgin  in  prayer,  at  least  retained  so  much  of  their  ancient 
coloiu'  and  expression  as  to  be  entirely  noble, — if  only  on* 
had  nobility  enough  in  one's  own  thoughts  to  forgive  th* 
failure  of  any  other  liuimin  soul  to  speak  clearly  what  it  had 
felt  of  the  most  divinr 

My  notes  have  got  coiuused  and  many  lost ;  and  now  I 
have  no  time  to  mend  the  thread  of  them  :  I  am  not  sure  even 
if  I  have  the  list  of  the  ^Prophets  complete  ;  but  these  follow- 
ing at  least  you  will  find,  and  (perhaps  with  others  between) 
in  this  order — chosen,  each,  for  his  message  concerninL; 
Christ,  which  is  written  on  the  scroll  he  bears. 

34. 

1.  Oil  the  Madonna's  left  hand,  Isaiah.      "Behold,  a 

a   virgin    shall    conceive."     (Written    as   far   as 
"Immanuel.") 

2.  Jeremiah.      "  Hie  est  in  quo, — Deus  Noster." 

3.  Daniel.     "Cum  venerit"   as   far   as  to   "cessabii 

unctio." 

4.  Obadiah.     "  Ascendit  sanctus  in  Monte  Syon." 

5.  Habakkuk.     "  God  shall  come  from  the  South,  and 

the  Holy  One  from  Mount  Paran." 

6.  Hosea.     (Un deciphered.) 

7.  Jonah.     (Undeciphered.) 

8.  Zephaniah.     "Seek  ye  the  Lord,  all  in  tl -     -^--H. 

time  "  (in  mansueti  tempore). 
D.   Ill"    li.     ''Behold,  the  desired  of  all  nations  shall 

lU.   /achariah.      "Behold  a  man  whose  name  i^^ 
Branch."     (Oriens.) 
() 


82  ST.  MARK'S  HEST. 

11.  Malaclii.     "Behold,  I  send  my  messenger/'   etc. 

(angelum  meum). 

12.  Solomon.     "Who   is    this    that    ascends    as    the 

morning  ?  " 

13.  David.     "Of  the  fruit  of  thy  body  will  I  set  upon 

thy  throne." 

35.  The  decorative  power  of  the  colour  in  these  figures, 
chiefly  blue,  purple,  and  white,  on  gold,  is  entirely  admirable, 
— more  especially  the  dark  purple  of  the  Virgin's  robe,  with 
lines  of  gold  for  its  folds ;  and  the  figures  of  David  and  Solo- 
mon, both  in  Persian  tiaras,  almost  Arab,  with  falling  lappets 
to  the  shoulder,  for  shade  ;  David  holding  a  book  with  He- 
brew letters  on  it  and  a  cross,  (a  pretty  sign  for  the  Psalms  ;) 
and  Solomon  with  rich  orbs  of  lace  like  involved  ornament  on 
his  dark  robe,  cusped  in  the  short  hem  of  it,  over  gold  un- 
derneath. And  note  in  all  these  mosaics  that  Byzantine 
"purple," — the  colour  at  once  meaning  Kinghood  and  its 
Sorrow, — is  the  same  as  ours — not  scarlet,  but  amethj^st,  and 
that  deep. 

36.  Then  in  the  spandrils  below,  come  the  figures  of  the 
four  beasts,  with  this  inscription  round,  for  all  of  them. 

"  quaeque  sub  obscukis 
De  Cristo  dicta  eiguris 
His  apeeire  datur 
Et  in  his,  Deus  ipse  notatur." 

"  Whatever  things  under  obscure  figures  have  been  said  of 
Christ,  it  is  given  to  these "  (creatures)  ''  to  open  ;  and  in' 
these,  Christ  himself  is  seen." 

A  grave  saying.  Not  in  the  least  true  of  mere  Matthew, 
Mark,  Luke,  and  John.  Christ  was  never  seen  in  them, 
though  told  of  by  them.  But,  as  the  Word  by  which  all 
things  were  made.  He  is  seen  in  all  things  made,  and  in  the 
Poiesis  of  them  :  and  therefore,  when  the  vision  of  Ezekiel  is 
repeated  to  St.  John,  changed  only  in  that  the  four  creatures 
are  to  him  more  distinct — each  with  its  single  aspect,  and  not 
each  fourfold, — they  are  full  of  eyes  within,  and  rest  not  day 


nor  niglu, — saviu;^-,  ii*'iy,  ii<>ly,  Holy,  Lord  God  iVlmiirliiy, 
which  art,  and  wast,  and  art  to  come." 

37.  "We  repeat  the  words  habitually,  in  our  own  most  soienn  i 
religious  service  ;  but  we  repent  without  notieinq  out  (?, 
whose  mouths  they  come. 

"Therefore,"    (we  say,   in   ihli^^i    oc^i-.^.nioi.tOLiwn,;       N>i. 
Angels  and  Archangels,  and  with  all  the  Company  of  heaven, 
(meaning  each  of  us,  I  supj^ose,  the  select  Company  we  e> 
pect  to  get  into  there,)  "we  laud  and  magnify,"  etc.     But  i 
ought  to  make  a  difference  in  our  estimate  of  ourselves,  and 
of  our  power  to  say,  with  our  hearts,  that  God  is  Holy,  if  am 
remember  that  we  join  in  saying  so,  not,  for  the  present,  wiil; 
the  Angels, — but  with  the  Beasts. 

38.  Yet  not  with  every  manner  of  Beast ;  for  afterwards, 
when  all  the  Creatures  in  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  the  Se;i 
join  in  the  giving  of  praise,  it  is  only  these  four  who  can  say 
''  Amen." 

Tlie  Ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn  ;  and  the  Lion  that  shall 
shall  eat  straw  like  the  Ox,  and  lie  down  with  the  lamb  ;  and 
the  Eagle  that  fluttereth  over  her  young  ;  and  the  human 
creature  that  loves  its  mate,  and  its  children.  In  these  four 
is  all  the  power  and  all  the  charity  of  earthly  1'+'^^  •  'ind  in 
such  power  and  charity  "  Deus  ipse  notatur." 

39.  Notable,  in  that  manner,  He  was,  at  least,  to  the  men 
who  built  this  shrine  where  once  was  St.  Theodore's ; — not  be- 
traying nor  forgetting  their  first  master,  but  placing  his  statue 
with  St.  Mark's  Lion,  as  equal  powers  upon  their  pillars  oi 
justice  ; — St.  Theodore,  as  you  have  before  heard,  being  the 
human  spirit  in  true  conquest  over  the  inhuman,  because  in 
true  sympathy  with  it — not  as  St.  George  in  contest  with,  but 
being  strengthened  and  pedestalled  by,  the  "  Dragons  and  al 
Deeps." 

40.  But  the  issue  of  all  these  lessons  we  cannot  yet  meas- 
ure ;  it  is  only  now  that  we  are  beginning  to  be  able  to  read 
tliem,  in  the  myths  of  the  past,  and  natural  history  of  th( 
present  world.  The  animal  gods  of  Egypt  and  Assyria,  tlb 
animal  ciy  that  there  is  no  God,  of  the  passing  hour,  are,  boll 

of     \hi^u\      inrf    of     ilw.   vil'liiMoniv   ,.f     fho     ivli'rion      Vet^»b-r,. 


S4  ST.  MARir8  REST. 

vealed,  in  the  rule  of  the  Holy  Spirit  over  the  venomous  dust, 
when  the  sucking  child  shall  play  by  the  hole  of  the  asp,  and 
the  weaned  child  lay  his  hand  on  the  cockatrice  den. 

41.  And  now,  if  you  have  enough  seen,  and  understood, 
this  eastern  dome  and  its  lesson,  go  down  into  the  church 
under  the  central  one,  and  consider  the  story  of  that. 

Under  its  angles  are  the  four  Evangelists  themselves,  drawn 
as  men,  and  each  with  his  name.  And  over  them  the  inscrip- 
tion is  widely  different.^ 

"  Sic  actus  Christi 
Desceibunt  quatuor  isti 
Quod  neque  natura 
Liter  nent,  neg  utrinque  figura." 

"  Thus  do  these  four  describe  the  Acts  of  Christ.  And 
weave  his  story,  neither  by  natural  knowledge,  nor,  contrari- 
wise, by  any  figure." 

Compare  now  the  two  inscrij)tions.  In  the  living  creatures, 
Christ  himself  is  seen  by  nature  and  by  figure.  But  these 
four  tell  us  his  Acts,  "Not  by  nature — not  by  figure."  How 
then  ? 

42.  You  have  had  various  "lives  of  Christ,"  German  and 
other,  lately  provided  among  your  other  severely  historical 
studies.  Some,  critical ;  and  some,  sentimental.  But  there 
is  only  one  light  by  which  you  can  read  the  life  of  Christ, — 
the  light  of  the  life  you  now  lead  in  the  flesh  ;  and  that  not 
the  natural,  but  the  won  life.  "Nevertheless,  I  live  ;  yet  not 
I,  but  Christ  liveth  in  me." 

Therefore,  round  the  vault,  as  the  pillars  of  it,  are  the 
Christian  virtues  ;  somewhat  more  in  number,  and  other  in 
nature,  than  the  swindling-born  and  business-bred  virtues 
which  most  Christians  nowadays  are  content  in  acquiring. 
But  these  old  Venetian  virtues  are  compliant  also,  in  a  way. 

^  I  give,  and  construe,  tliis  legend  as  now  written,  but  tlie  five  letters 
"liter"  are  rec^ently  restored,  and  I  suspect  them  to  have  been  origi- 
nally either  three  or  six,  "cer"  or  "discer. "  In  all  the  monkish 
rhymes  I  have  yet  read,  I  don  t  remember  any  so  awkward  a  division 
as  this  of  natura-liter. 


THE  REQUIEM.  -^5 

i,  M  sea-life,  and  there  is  one  for  every  wind  that 

blows. 

43.  If  }u.i  ....wul  in  mid-ix.v.v,,  iv^oking  to  the  altar,  the  lirst 
narrow  window  of  the  cupola — (I  call  it  first  for  reasons  pres- 
ently given)  faces  you,  in  the  due  east.  Call  the  one  next  it, 
on  your  light,  the  second  window  ;  it  bears  east-south-east. 
The  third,  south-east ;  the  fourth,  south-south-east  ;  the  fifth, 
south  ;  the  ninth,  west ;  the  thirteenth,  north  ;  and  the  six- 
teenth, east-north-east. 

The  Venetian  Virtues  stand,  one  between  each  window. 
On  the  sides  of  the  east  window  stand  Fortitude  and  Tem- 
perance ;  Temperance  the  first.  Fortitude  the  last :  "  he  that 
endure th  to  the  end,  the  same  shall  be  saved." 

Then  their  order  is  as  follows  :  Temperance  between  the 
first  and  second  windows, — (quenching  fire  with  water) ; — be- 
tween the  second  and  third,  Prudence  ;  and  then,  in  sequence, 

III.  Humility. 

IV.  Kindness,  (Benignitas). 
V.  Compassion. 

VI.  Abstinence. 
VII.  Mercy. 
Tin.  Long-suffering. 

IX.  Chastity. 

X.  Modesty. 

XI.  Constancy. 
XII.  Charity. 

XIII.  Hope. 

XIV.  Faith. 
XV.  Justice. 

XVI.  Fortitude. 

44.  I  meant  to  have  read  all  their  legends,  but  "  could  do 
it  any  time,"  and  of  course  never  did ! — but  these  following- 
are  the  most  important.  Charity  is  put  twelfth  at  the  last  at- 
tained of  the  virtues  belonging  to  human  life  only  :  but  she 
is  called  the  '*  Mother  of  the  Virtues  " — meaning,  of  them  all, 
when  they  become  divine  ;  and  chiefly  of  the  four  last,  which 


86  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

relate  to  the  other  world.  Then  Long-suffering,  (Patientia,) 
has  for  her  legend,  "  Blessed  are  the  Peacemakers  "  ;  Chastity, 
"Blessed  are  the  Pure  in  Heart"  ;  Modesty,  "Blessed  are  ye 
when  men  hate  you '" ;  while  Constancy  (consistency)  has  the 
two  heads,  balanced,  one  in  each  hand,  which  are  given  to 
the  keystone  of  the  entrance  arch  :  meaning,  I  believe,  the 
equal  balance  of  a  man's  being,  by  which  it  not  only  stands, 
but  stands  as  an  arch,  with  the  double  strength  of  the  two 
sides  of  his  intellect  and  soul.  "  Qui  sibi  constat"  Then  note 
that  "Modestia"is  here  not  merely  shamefacedness,  though 
it  includes  whatever  is  good  in  that ;  but  it  is  contentment  in 
being  thought  little  of,  or  hated,  when  one  thinks  one  ought 
to  be  made  much  of — a  very  difficult  virtue  to  acquire  indeed, 
as  I  know  some  people  who  know. 

45.  Then  the  order  of  the  circle  becomes  entirely  clear. 
All  strength  of  character  begins  in  temperance,  prudence,  and 
lowliness  of  thought.  Without  these,  nothing  is  possible,  of 
noble  humanity  :  on  these  follow — kindness,  (simple,  as  op- 
posed to  malice),  and  compassion,  (sympathy,  a  much  rarer 
quality  than  mere  kindness)  ;  then,  selt-restriction,  a  quite  dif- 
ferent and  higher  condition  than  temperance, — the  first  being 
not  painful  when  rightly  practised,  but  the  latter  always  so  ; — 
("I  held  my  peace,  even  from  good  " — "  quanto  quisque  sibi 
plura  negaverit,  ab  Dis  plura  feret ").  Then  come  pity  and 
long-suffering,  which  have  to  deal  with  the  sin,  and  not  merely 
with  the  sorrow,  of  those  around  us.  Then  the  three  Trial 
virtues,  through  which  one  has  to  struggle  forward  up  to  the 
power  of  Love,  the  twelfth. 

All  these  relate  only  to  the  duties  and  relations  of  the  life 
that  is  now. 

But  Love  is  stronger  than  Death ;  and  through  her,  we  have, 
first,  Hope  of  life  to  come ;  then,  surety  of  it ;  living  by  this 
surety,  (the  Just  shall  live  by  faith,)  Eighteousness,  and 
Strength  to  the  end.  Who  bears  on  her  scroll,  "The  Lord 
shall  break  the  teeth  of  the  Lions." 

46.  An  undeveloped  and  simial  system  of  human  life — you 
think  it — cockney  friend  ! 

Such  as  it  was,  the  Venetians  made  shift  to  brave  the  war 


'  »f  this  world  Avitli  it,  as  weii  as  ever  you  are  like  to  do  ;  and 
ihey  had,  besides,  the  joy  of  looking  to  the  j^eace  of  another. 
I  or,  you  see,  above  these  narrow  windows,  stand  the  Apostles, 
iid  the  two  angels  that  stood  by  them  on  the  Mount  of  the 
Ascension  ;  and  between  these  the  Virgin  ;  and  with  her,  and 
with  the  twelve,  you  are  to  hear  the  angel's  word,  "  Why  stand 
ye  at  gaze  ?  as  He  departs,  so  shall  He  come,  to  give  the  Laws 
that  ought  to  be." 

Debit  A  juka, 

I  form  of  "debit"  little  referred  to  in  modern  ledgers,  but  by 
!  he  Venetian  acknowledged  for  all  devoirs  of  commerce  and 
of  war;  writing,  by  his  church,  of  the  Eialto's  business,  (the 
first  words,  these,  mind  you,  that  Venice  ever  speaks  aloud,) 
"Around  this  Temple,  let  the  Merchant's  law  be  just,  his 
weights  true,  and  his  covenants  faithful."  And  wiiting  thus, 
in  lovelier  letters,  above  the  place  of  St.  Mark's  Kest, — 

"  Brave  be  the  living,  who  live  unto  the  Lord  ; 
For  Blessed  are  the  dead,  that  die  in  Him." 

Note. — The  mosaics  described  iii  this  number  of  St.  Mark's  Rest  be- 
■  ng  now  liable  at  any  moment  to  destruction — from  causes  already  enough 
specified,  I  have  undertaken,  at  the  instance  of  Mr.  Edward  Burne 
Jones,  and  with  promise  of  that  artist's  helpful  superintendence,  at  once 
to  obtain  some  permanent  record  of  them,  the  best  that  may  be  at  present 
])ossible:  and  to  that  end  I  have  already  dispatched  to  Venice  an  accom- 
])lished  young  draughtsman,  who  is  content  to  devote  himself,  as  old 
[  winters  did,  to  the  work  before  him  for  the  sake  of  that,  and  his  own 
honour,  at  journeyman's  wages.  The  three  of  us,  Mr.  Burne  Jones,  and 
lie,  and  I,  are  alike  minded  to  set  our  hands  and  souls  hard  at  this  thing: 
l>iit  we  can't,  unless  the  public  will  a  little  help  us.    I  have  given  away 

I I  ready  all  I  have  to  spare,  and  can't  carry  on  this  work  at  my  own  cost; 
;id  if  Mr.  Burne  Jones  gives  his  time  and  care  gratis,  and  without  stint, 
si  know  he  will,  it  is  all  he  sliould  be  asked  for.    Therefore,  the  public 

must  give  me  enough  to  maintain  my  draughtsman  at  his  task:  wliat 

mode  of  publication  for  the  drawings  may  be  then  possible,  is  for  after- 
oiisideration.  I  ask  for  subscriptions  at  present  to  obtain  the  copies 
Illy.     Tlie  reader  is  requested  to  refer  also  to  the  final  note  appended 

t<>  the  new  edition  of  the  "  Stones  of  Venice,"  and  to  send  what  sub- 
.  ription  he  may  please  to  my  publisher,  Mr.  G.  Allen,  Sunnyside,  Orp- 

iiiutoii,  i\(Mit. 


FIRST  SUPPLEMENT. 

THE    SHRIITE    OF    THE    SLAVES. 

BEING  A  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  BY 

VICTOR  CARPACCIO 

IN  VENICE. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  (too  impei'fev.i;  .*^v.^'ant  of  the  pkici^x^.-  . 
Carpaccio  in  the  chapel  of  San  Giorgio  de'  Schiavoni,  : 
properly  a  supplement  to  the  part  of  *"  St  Mark's  Eest "  in 
which  I  pix)pose  to  examine  the  religious  mind  of  Venice  i: 
the  fifteenth  century  ;  but  I  publish  these  notes  premature': 
that  they  may  the  sooner  become  helpful,  according  to  thei 
power,  to  the  EngUsh  traveller. 

The  second  supplement,  which  is  already  in  the  preso.  .. 
contain  the  analysis  by  my  fellow- worker,  Mr.  James  Redd. 
Anderson,  of  the  mythological  purport  of  the  pictures  her 
described.     I  sepu*ate  Mi\  Anderson's  work  thus  distinct  1 
from  my  own,  that  he  may  have  the  entire  credit  of  it ;  bi; 
the  reader  will  soon  perceive  that  it  is  altogether  necessai 
both  for  the  completion  and  the  proof  of  my  tentative  stat 
men ts  ;  and  that  without  the  certificate  of  his  scholarly  i. 
vestigation,  it  would  have  been  lost  time  to  prolong  the  accoui. 
of  my  own  conjectures  or  impressiona 


^_^ 


THE    SHRINE    OF    THE    SLAVES. 


Counting  the  canals  which,  entering  the  city  from  the  open 
lagoon,  must  be  crossed  as  you  walk  from  the  Piazzetta  to- 
wards the  Public  Gardens,  the  fourth,  called  the  *^  Rio  della 
Pieta"  from  the  unfinished  church  of  the  Pieta,  facing  the 
quay  before  yoii  reach  it,  will  presently,  if  3^ou  go  down  it  in 
gondola,  and  pass  the  Campo  di  S.  Antonin,  permit  your 
landing  at  some  steps  on  the  right,  in  front  of  a  little  chapel 
of  indescribable  architecture,  chiefly  made  up  of  foolish  spiral 
flourishes,  which  yet,  by  their  careful  execution  and  shallow 
mouldings,  are  seen  to  belong  to  a  time  of  refined  tamper. 
Over  its  door  are  two  bas-reliefs.  That  of  St.  Catherine  lean- 
ing on  her  wheel  seems  to  me  anterior  in  date  to  the  other, 
and  is  very  lovely  :  the  second  is  contemporaiy^  with  the 
cinque-cento  building,  and  fine  also  ;  but  notable  chiefly  for 
the  conception  of  the  dragon  as  a  creature  formidable  rather 
by  its  gluttony  than  its  malice,  and  degraded  beneath  the 
level  of  all  other  spirits  of  ^rej  ;  its  wings  having  wasted 
away  into  mere  paddles  or  flappers,  having  in  them  no  faculty 
or  memory  of  flight ;  its  throat  stretched  into  the  flaccidity  of 
a  sack,  its  tail  swollen  into  a  molluscous  encumbrance,  like  an 
enormous  worm  ;  and  the  human  head  beneath  its  paw  sym- 
bolizing therefore  the  subjection  of  tJje  human  nature  to  the 
most  brutal  desires. 

When  I  came  to  Venice  last  year,  it  was  with  resolute 
pur^wse  of  finding  out  everything  that  could  be  known  of  the 
circumstances  which  led  to  the  building,  and  determined  the 
style,  of  this  chapel — or  more  strictly,  sacred  hall,  of  the 
School  of  the  Schiavoni.  But  day  after  day  the  task  was 
delayed  by  some  more  pressing  subject  of  enquiry ;  and,  at 


94  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 

this  moment— resolved  at  last  to  put  what  notes  I  have  on  the 
contents  of  it  at  once  together, — I  find  myself  reduced  to  copy, 
without  any  additional  illustration,  the  statement  of  Flaminio 
Corner/ 

"In  the  year  1451,  some  charitable  men  of  the  Illyrian  or 
Sclavonic  nation,  many  of  whom  were  sailors,  moved  by 
praiseworthy  compassion,  in  that  they  saw  many  of  their  fel- 
low-countrymen, though  deserving  well  of  the  republic,  perish 
miserably,  either  of  hard  life  or  hunger,  nor  have  enough  to 
pay  the  expenses  of  church  burial,  determined  to  establish  a 
charitable  brotherhood  under  the  invocation  of  the  holy 
martyrs  St.  George  and  St.  Trifon — brotherhood  whose  pledge 
was  to  succour  poor  sailors,  and  others  of  their  nation,  in 
their  grave  need,  whether  by  reason  of  sickness  or  old  age, 
and  to  conduct  their  bodies,  after  death,  religiously  to  burial. 
Which  design  was  approved  by  the  Council  of  Ten,  in  a 
decree  dated  19th  May,  1451 ;  after  which,  they  obtained  from 
the  pity  of  the  Prior  of  the  Monastery  of  St.  John  of  Jeru- 
salem, Lorenzo  Marcello,  the  convenience  of  a  hospice  in  the 
buildings  of  the  Priory,  with  rooms  such  as  were  needful  for 
their  meetings  ;  and  the  privilege  of  building  an  altar  in  the 
church,  under  the  title  of  St.  George  and  Trifon,  the  mar- 
tyrs ;  with  the  adjudgment  of  an  annual  rent  of  four  zecchins, 
two  loaves,  and  a  pound  of  wax,  to  be  offered  to  the  Priory  on 
the  feast  of  St.  George.  Such  were  the  beginnings  of  the 
brotherhood,  called  that  of  St.  George  of  the  Sclavonians. 

"  Towards  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  old  hospice 
being  ruinous,  the  fraternity  took  counsel  to  raise  from  the 
foundations  a  more  splendid  new  one,  under  the  title  of  the 
Martyr  St.  George,  which  was  brought  to  completion,  with  its 
fayade  of  marble,  in  the  year  1501. 

The  hospice  granted  by  the  pity  of  the  Prior  of  St.  John 
cannot  have  been  very  magnificent,  if  this  little  chapel  be  in- 
deed much  more  splendid  ;  nor  do  I  yet  know  what  rank  the 
school  of  the  Sclavonians  held,  in  power  or  number,  among 
the  other  minor  fraternities  of  Venice.  The  relation  of  the 
national  character  of  the  Dalmatians  and  Illyrians,  not  only 
*  "Notizie  Storiclie,"  Venice,  1758,  p.  167. 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVER  05 

to  Venice,  but  to  Europe,  I  find  to  be  of  far  more  deep  and 
curious  interest  than  is  commonly  supposed  ;  iind  in  the  case 
of  the  Venetians,  traceable  back  at  least  to  the  days  of  Her- 
odotus ;  for  the  festival  of  the  Brides  of  Venice,  and  its  inter- 
ruption by  the  lUyrian  pirates,  is  one  of  the  curious  proofs  of 
the  grounds  he  had  for  naming  the  Venetians  as  one  of  the 
tribes  of  the  lUyrians,  and  ascribing  to  them,  alone  among 
European  races,  the  same  practice  as  that  of  the  Babylonians 
with  respect  to  the  dowries  of  their  marriageable  girls. 

How  it  chanced  that  while  the  entire  Riva, — the  chief  quay 
in  Venice — was  named  from  the  Sclavonians,  they  were  yet 
obliged  to  build  their  school  on  this  narrow  canal,  and  prided 
themselves  on  the  magnificence  of  so  small  a  building,  I  have 
not  ascertained,  nor  who  the  builder  was  ; — his  style,  differing 
considerably  from  all  the  Venetian  practice  of  the  same  date, 
by  its  refusal  at  once  of  purely  classic  forms,  and  of  elaborate 
ornament,  becoming  insipidly  grotesque,  and  chastely  barbar- 
ous, in  a  quite  unexampled  degree,  is  noticeable  enough, 
if  we  had  not  better  things  to  notice  within  the  unpre- 
tending doorway.  Entering,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  little 
room  about  the  size  of  the  commercial  parlour  in  an 
old-fashioned  English  inn ;  perhaj^s  an  inch  or  two  higher 
in  the  ceiling,  which  is  of  good  horizontal  beams,  nan*ow 
and  many,  for  effect  of  richness  ;  painted  and  gilded,  also, 
now  tawdrily  enough,  but  always  in  some  such  patterns 
as  you  see.  At  the  end  of  the  low  room,  is  an  altar,  \di\\ 
doors  on  the  right  and  left  of  it  in  the  sides  of  the  room,  open- 
ing, the  one  into  the  sacristy,  the  other  to  the  stairs  leading 
to  the  upper  chapel.  All  the  rest  mere  flat  wall,  wainscoted 
two-thirds  up,  eight  feet  or  so,  leaving  a  third  of  the  height, 
say  four  feet,  claiming  some  kind  of  decent  decoratioiL 
Which  modest  demand  you  perceive  to  be  modestly  su23plied, 
l)y  pictures,  fitting  that  measure  in  height,  and  running  long 
or  short,  as  suits  their  subjects ;  ten  altogether,  (or  with  the 
altar-piece,  eleven,)  of  which  nine  are  worth  your  looking  at. 

Not  as  veiy  successfully  decorative  work,  I  admit.  A 
modem  Parisian  upholsterer,  or  clever  Kensington  student, 
would  have  done  for  you  a  far  surpassing  splendour  in  a  few 


OG  Tim  SIIIUNE  OF  THE  SLA  VES. 

hours :  all  that  we  can  say  here,  at  the  utmost,  is  that  the 
place  looks  comfortable  ;  and,  especially,  warm, — the  pictures 
having  the  effect,  you  will  feel  presently,  of  a  soft  evening 
sunshine  on  the  walls,  or  glow  from  embers  on  some  peaceful 
hearth,  cast  up  into  the  room  where  one  sits  waiting  for  dear 
friend^  in  twihght. 

In  a  little  while,  if  yon  stiR  look  with  general  glance,  yet 
patiently,  this  warmth  will  resolve  itself  into  a  kind  of  chequer- 
ing, as  of  an  Eastern  cai'pet,  or  old-fasliioned  English  sampler, 
of  more  than  usually  broken  and  sudden  variegation ;  nay, 
suggestive  here  and  there  of  a  wayward  patchwork,  verging 
into  gTotesqueness,  or  even,  with  some  touch  of  fantasy  in 
masque,  into  harlequinade,— like  a  tapestry  for  a  Clnistmas 
night  in  a  home  a  thousand  years  old,  to  adorn  a  carol  of  hon- 
oured knights  with  honouring  queens. 

Thus  far  sentient  of  the  piece,  for  all  is  indeed  here  but 
one, — go  forwaixl  a  little,  please,  to  the  second  picture  on 
the  left,  wherein,  eenti*al,  is  our  now  accustomed  friend,  St. 
George  :  stiff  and  grotesque,  even  to  humorousness^  you  will 
most  likely  think  him,  with  his  dragon  in  a  singularly  de- 
pressed and,  as  it  were,  water-logged,  state.  Never  mind  him, 
or  the  dragon,  just  now  ;  but  take  a  good  opera-glass,  and 
look  therewith  steadily  and  long  at  the  heads  of  the  two 
princely  riders  on  the  left — \h.e  Saracen  king*  and  his  daugh- 
ter— he  in  high  white  turban,  she  beyond  him  in  the  crimson 
cap,  high,  like  a  castle  tower. 

Look  well  and  long.  For  truly, — and  with  hard-earned  and 
secure  laiowledge  of  such  mattei-s^  I  tell  you,  through  all  this 
round  world  of  oui-s,  searching  what  the  best  life  of  it  has 
done  of  brightest  in  all  its  times  and  yeso^, — you  shall  not  find 
another  piece  quite  the  like  of  that  little  piece  of  work,  for  su- 
preme, serene^  unassuming,  unfaltering  sweetness  of  painter's 
perfect  art.  Over  every  other  precious  thing,  of  such  things 
known  to  me,  it  rises,  in  the  compass  of  its  simplicity ;  in  be- 
ing able  to  gather  the  perfections  of  the  |oy  of  extreme  child- 
hood, and  the  joy  of  a  hermit's  age,  with  the  strength  and 
sunshine  of  mid-life,  all  in  one. 

AYhich  is  mdeed  moi^e  or  less  true  of  all  Carpaccio's  work 


TIIPJ  SJimNia  OF  TUB  SLAVES.  97 

au  J  mind  ;  but  in  this  piece  you  have  it  set  in  close  jewellery, 
radiant,  inestimable. 

Extreme  joy  of  childhood,  I  say.  No  Httle  lady  in  her  first 
red  shoes, — no  soldier's  baby  seeing  himself  in  the  glass  be- 
neath his  father's  helmet,  is  happier  in  laugh  than  Carpaccio, 
as  he  heaps  and  heaps  his  Sultan's  snowy  crest,  and  crowns 
his  pretty  lady  with  her  ruby  tower.  No  desert  herniit  is 
more  temperate  ;  no  ambassador  on  perilous  policy  more  sub- 
tle ;  no  preacher  of  first  Christian  gospel  to  a  primitive  raci 
more  earnest  or  tender.  The  wonderfullest  of  Venetian  Har- 
lequins this, — variegated,  like  Geryon,  to  the  innermost  mind 
of  him — to  the  lightest  gleam  of  his  pencil:  *'Con  piii  color, 
sommesse  e  sopraposte  ;  non  fur  mai  drappi  Tartari  ne  Tur- 
chi ;  '*  and  all  for  good. 

Of  course  you  will  not  believe  mo  at  first, — nor  indeed,  till 
you  have  unwoven  many  a  fibre  of  his  silk  and  gold.  I  had 
no  idea  of  the  make  of  it  myself,  till  this  last  year,  when  I  hap- 
pily had  beguiled  to  Venice  one  of  my  best  young  Oxford 
men,  eager  as  myself  to  understand  this  historic  tapestry,  and 
finer  fingered  than  I,  who  once  getting  hold  of  the  fringes  of 
it,  has  followed  them  thread  by  thread  through  all  the  gleam- 
ing damask,  and  read  it  clear  ;  whose  account  of  the  real  mean- 
ing of  all  these  pictures  you  shall  have  presently  in  full. 

But  first,  w^e  will  go  round  the  room  to  know  what  is  herr 
to  read,  and  take  inventory  of  our  treasures ;  and  I  will  tell 
you  only  the  little  I  made  out  myself,  which  is  all  that,  with- 
out more  hard  work  than  can  be  got  through  to-day,  you  aw 
likely  either  to  see  in  them,  or  beUeve  of  them. 

First,  on  the  left,  then,  St.  George  and  the  Dragon — com- 
batant both,  to  the  best  of  their  powers  ;  perfect  each  in  their 
natures  of  dragon  and  knight.  No  dragon  that  I  know  of. 
pictured  among  mortal  worms  ;  no  knight  I  know  of,  picture^! 
in  immortal  chivalry,  so  perfect,  each  in  his  kind,  as  these 
two.  What  else  is  visible  on  the  battleground,  of  living 
creature, — frog,  ne\vt,  or  vij^er, — no  less  admii-able  in  their 
kind.  The  small  black  viper,  central,  I  have  painted  carefully 
for  the  schools  of  Oxford  as  a  Natural  History  study,  such  as 
Oxford  schools  prefer.  St.  George,  for  my  own  satisfaction, 
7 


98  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 

iilso  as  well  as  I  could,  in  the  year  1872  ;  and  hope  to  get 
liim  some  day  better  done,  for  an  example  to  Sheffield  in  iron- 
armour,  and  several  other  things. 

Picture  second,  the  one  I  first  took  you  to  see,  is  of  the 
Dragon  led  into  the  market-place  of  the  Sultan's  capital — 
submissive  :  the  piece  of  St.  George's  spear,  which  has  gone 
through  the  back  of  his  head,  being  used  as  a  bridle  :  but 
the  creature  indeed  now  little  needing  one,  being  otherwise 
subdued  enough ;  an  entirely  collapsed  and  confounded  dragon, 
all  his  bones  dissolved  away  ;  prince  and  people  gazing  as  he 
returns  to  his  dust. 

Picture  third,  on  the  left  side  of  the  altar. ' 

The  Sultan  and  his  daughter  are  baptized  by  St.  George. 

Triumphant  festival  of  baptism,  as  at  the  new  birthday  of 
two  kingly  spirits.  Trumpets  and  shawms  high  in  resounding 
transport ;  yet  something  of  comic  no  less  than  rapturous' in 
the  piece  ;  a  beautiful  scarlet — ''  parrot  "  (must  we  call  him?) 
conspicuously  mumbling  at  a  violet  flower  under  the  steps ; 
bim  also — finding  him  the  scarletest  and  mumblingest  parrot 
[  had  ever  seen — I  tried  to  paint  in  1872  for  the  Natural  His- 
tory Schools  of  Oxford — perhaps  a  new  species,  or  extinct 
old  one,  to  immortalize  Carpaccio's  name  and  mine.  When 
all  the  imaginative  arts  shall  be  known  no  more,  perhaps,  in 
Darwinian  Museum,  this  scarlet  "  Epops  Carpaccii"  may  pre- 
serve our  fame. 

But  the  quaintest  thing  of  all  is  St.  George's  own  attitude 
hi  baptizing.  He  has  taken  a  good  platterful  of  water  to 
pour  on  the  Sultan's  head.  The  font  of  inlaid  bronze  below 
is  quite  flat,  and  the  splash  is  likely  to  be  spreading.  St. 
George — carefullest  of  saints,  it  seems,  in  the  smallest  mat- 
ters— is  holding  his  mantle  back  well  out  of  the  way.  I  sup- 
pose, really  and  truly,  the  instinctive  action  would  have  been 
this,  pouring  at  the  same  time  so  that  the  splash  might  be 
towards  himself,  and  not  over  the  Sultan. 

With  its  head  close  to  St.  George's  foot,  you  see  a  sharp- 
eared  white  dog,  with  a  red   collar  round  his  neck.     Not  a 

^  The  intermediate  oblong  on  the  lateral  wall  is  not  Carpaccio's,  and 
is  good  for  nothing. 


THE  SIIlilNE  OF  THE  SLA  VES.  9i^ 

greyhound,  by  any  means  ;  but  an  awkward  animal :  stupid- 
looking,  and  not  much  like  a  saint's  dog.  Nor  is  it  in  the 
least  interested  in  the  baptism,  which  a  saint's  dog  would  cer- 
tainly have  been.  Tlie  mumbling  parrot,  and  he — what  can 
they  havn  fn  do  with  tho  proceedings?  A  very  comic  pict- 
ure ! 

But  this  next, — lor  a  piece  of  sacred  art,  what  can  we  say 
of  it? 

St.  Tryphonius  and  the  Basilisk— was  ever  so  simple  a  saint, 
ever  so  absurd  a  beast  ?  as  if  the  absurdity  of  all  heraldic 
beasts  that  ever  were,  had  been  hatched  into  one  perfect  ab- 
surdity— prancing  there  on  the  steps  of  the  throne,  self-satis- 
fied ; — this  the  beast  whose  glance  is  mortal !  And  little  St. 
Tiyphonius,  with  nothing  remarkable  about  him  more  than  is 
in  every  good  little  boy,  for  all  I  can  see. 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  I  don't  happen  to  know  anything 
about  St.  Tryphonius,  whom  I  mix  up  a  Httle  with  Tropho- 
nius,  and  his  cave  ;  also  I  am  not  very  clear  about  the  differ- 
ence between  basilisks  and  cockatrices  ;  and  on  the  whole  find 
myself  reduced,  in  this  picture,  to  admiring  the  carpets  with 
the  crosses  on  them  hung  out  of  the  window,  which,  if  you 
will  examine  with  opera-glass,  you  will  be  convinced,  I  think, 
that  nobody  cim  do  the  like  of  them  by  rules,  at  Kensington  ; 
and  that  if  you  really  care  to  have  caipets  as  good  as  they  can 
be,  you  must  get  somebody  to  design  them  who  can  draw 
saints  and  basilisks  too. 

Note,  also,  the  group  under  the  loggia  which  the  stair-case 
leads  up  to,  high  on  the  left.  It  is  a  picture  in  itself ;  far 
more  lovelj^  as  a  composition  than  the  finest  Titian  or  Vero- 
nese, simple  and  pleasant  this  as  the  summer  air,  and  lucent 
as  morning  cloud. 

On  the  other  side  also  there  are  wonderful  things,  only 
there's  a  black  figure  there  that  frightens  me  ;  I  can't  make 
it  out  at  all  ;  aiil  vv.i]  t- fiiei.  go  on  to  the  next  picture, 
please. 

Stay — I  forgot  the  arabesijue  on  the  steps,  with  the  living 
plants  taking  part  in  the  ornament,  like  voices  chanting  here 
and  there  a  note,  as  some  pretty  tune  follows  its  melodious 


100  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 

way,  on  constant  instruments.  Nature  and  art  at  play  with 
each  other — graceful  and  gay  alike,  yet  all  the  while  conscious 
that  they  are  at  play  round  the  steps  of  a  throne,  and  under 
the  paws  of  a  basilisk. 

The  fifth  picture  is  in  the  darkest  recess  of  all  the  room  ; 
and  of  darkest  theme, — the  Agony  in  the  garden.  I  have 
never  seen  it  rightly,  nor  need  you  pause  at  it,  unless  to  note 
the  extreme  naturalness  of  the  action  in  the  sleeping  figures 
— their  dresses  drawn  tight  under  them  as  they  have  turned, 
restlessly.     But  the  principal  figure  is  hopelessly  invisible. 

The  sixth  picture  is  of  the  calling  of  Matthew  ;  visible, 
this,  in  a  bright  day,  and  worth  waiting  for  one,  to  see  it  in, 
through  any  stress  of  weather. 

For,  indeed,  the  Gospel  which  the  pubhcan  wrote  for  us, 
with  its  perfect  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  mostly  more  har- 
monious and  gentle  fulness,  in  places  where  St.  Luke  is  formal, 
St.  John  mysterious,  and  St.  Mark  brief, — this  Gospel,  ac- 
cording to  St.  Matthew,  I  should  think,  if  we  had  to  choose 
one  out  of  all  the  books  in  the  Bible  for  a  prison  or  desert 
friend,  would  be  the  one  we  should  keep. 

And  we  do  not  enough  think  how  much  that  leaving  the 
receipt  of  custom  meant,  as  a  sign  of  the  man's  nature,  who 
was  to  leave  us  such  a  notable  piece  of  literature. 

Yet  observe,  Carpaccio  does  not  mean  to  express  the  fact, 
or  anything  like  the  fact,  of  the  literal  calling  of  Matthew. 
What  the  actual  character  of  the  publicans  of  Jerusalem  was 
at  that  time,  in  its  general  aspect,  its  admitted  degradation, 
and  yet  power  of  believing,  with  the  harlot,  what  the  masters 
and  the  mothers  in  Israel  could  not  believe,  it  is  not  his  purpose 
to  teach  you.  This  call  from  receipt  of  custom,  he  takes  for 
the  symbol  of  the  universal  call  to  leave  all  that  we  have,  and 
are  doing.  "  Whosoever  forsaketh  not  all  that  he  hath,  can- 
not be  my  disciple."  For  the  other  calls  were  easily  obeyed 
in  comparison  of  this.  To  leave  one's  often  empty  nets  and 
nightly  toil  on  sea,  and  become  fishers  of  men,  probably  you 
might  find  pescatori  enough  on  the  Riva  there,  within  a  hun- 
dred paces  of  you,  who  would  take  the  chance  at  once,  if  any 
gentle  person  offered  it  them.     James   and  Jude — Christ's 


THE  SimiNE  OF  THE  SLAVES.  101 

cousins — no  thanks  to  them  for  following  Him  ;  their  own 
home  conceivably  no  richer  than  His.  Thomas  and  Philip,  I 
suppose,  somewhat  thoughtful  persons  on  spiritual  matters, 
questioning  of  them  long  since  ;  going  out  to  hear  St.  John 
preach,  and  to  see  whom  he  had  seen.  But  this  man,  busy 
in  tlie  place  of  business — engaged  in  the  interests  of  foreign 
governments — thinking  no  more  of  an  Israelite  Messiah  than 
Mr.  Goschen,  but  only  of  Egyptian  finance,  and  the  like- 
suddenly  the  Messiah,  passing  by,  says'"  Follow  me  ! "  and  h' 
rises  up,  gives  Him  his  hand,  "  Yea  !  to  the  death  ; "  and  alj 
sconds  from  his  desk  in  that  electric  manner  on  the  instant, 
leaving  his  cash-box  unlocked,  and  his  books  for  whoso  list  t.  > 
balance  ! — a  very  remarkable  kind  of  person  indeed,  it  seem  . 
to  me. 

Cai-paccio  takes  him,  as  I  said,  for  a  type  of  such  sacrific* 
at  its  best.  Everything  (observe  in  passing)  is  here  given  you 
of  the  best.  Dragon  deadliest — knight  purest — parrot  scar- 
letest — basilisk  absurdest — publican  publicanest ; — a  perfect 
type  of  the  life  spent  in  taxing  one's  neighbour,  exacting  duties, 
per-centages,  profits  in  general,  in  a  due  and  virtuous  man- 
ner. 

For  do  not  think  Christ  would  have  called  a  bad  or  corrupt 
publican — much  less  that  a  bad  or  corrupt  publican  would 
have  obeyed  the  call.     Your  modem  English  evangelical  doc- 
trine that  Christ  has  a  special  liking  for  the  souls  of  rascals  i  ^ 
the  absurdest  basilisk  of  a  doctrine  that  ever  pranced  on  judg- 
ment steps.     That  which  is  lost  He  comes  to  save, — yes  ;  but 
not  that  which  is  defiantly  going  the  way  He  has  forbidden. 
He   showed  you  plainly  enough  what  kind  of  publican  H 
would  call,  having  chosen  two,  botli^  ^f  the  best:  '* Behold, 
Lord,  if  I  have  taken  anything  frow  any  xnan,  I  restore  it 
fourfold  ! " — a  beautiful  manner  of  trade.     Carpaccio  knows 
well  that  there  were  no  defalcations  from  Levi's  chest— -no  op 
l^ressions  in  his  tax-gatheiing.     This  whom  he  has  painted  i 
a  true   merchant  of  Venice,  uprightest  and   gentlest  of  tli 
merchant  race  ;  yet  with  a  glorious  pride  in  him.     What  mer 
chant  but  one  of  Venice  would  have  ventured  to  take  Christ' 
hand,  as  his  fiiend's— as  one  man  takes  another's?    Notre 


102  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

pentant,  he,  of  anything  he  has  done  ;  not  crushed  or  terrified 
by  Christ's  call ;  but  rejoicing  in  it,  as  meaning  Christ's  praise 
and  love.  "  Come  up  higher  then,  for  there  are  nobler  treas- 
ures than  these  to  count,  and  a  nobler  King  than  this  to  render 
account  to.  Thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a  few  things  ;  enter 
thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord." 

A  lovely  picture,  in  every  sense  and  power  of  painting  ; 
natural,  and  graceful,  and  quiet,  and  pathetic  ; — divinely  re- 
ligious, yet  as  decorative  and  dainty  as  a  bank  of  violets  in 
spring. 

But  the  next  picture  !  How  was  ever  such  a  thing  allowed 
to  be  put  in  a  church  ?  Nothing  surely  could  be  more  per- 
fect in  comic  art.  St.  Jerome,  forsooth,  introducing  his  nov- 
ice lion  to  monastic  life,  with  the  resulting  effect  on  the  vul- 
gar monastic  mind. 

Do  not  imagine  for  an  instant  that  Carpaccio  does  not  see 
the  jest  in  all  this,  as  well  as  you  do, — perhaps  even  a  little 
better.  ''Ask  for  him  to-morrow,  indeed,  and  you  shall  find 
him  a  grave  man  ; "  but,  to-day,  Mercutio  himself  is  not  more 
fanciful,  nor  Shakespeare  himself  more  gay  in  his  fancy  of  "  the 
gentle  beast  and  of  a  good  conscience,"  than  here  the  painter 
as  he  drew  his  delicately  smiling  lion  with  his  head  on  one 
side  like  a  Perugino's  saint,  and  his  left  paw  raised,  partly  to 
show  the  thorn  wound,  partly  in  deprecation, — 

*'  For  if  I  should,  as  lion,  come  in  strife 
Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  of  my  life." 

The  flying  monks  are  scarcely  at  first  intelligible  but  as  white 
and  blue  oblique  masses  ;  and  there  was  much  debate  between 
Mr.  Murray  and  me,  as  he  sketched  the  picture  for  the  Shef- 
field Museum,  whether  the  actions  of  flight  were  indeed  well 
given  or  not ;  he  maintaining  that  the  monks  were  really  run- 
ning like  Olympic  archers,  and  that  the  fine  drawing  was  only 
lost  under  the  quarteinng  of  the  dresses  ; — I  on  the  contrary 
believe  that  Carpaccio  had  failed,  having  no  gift  for  represent- 
ing swift  motion.  We  are  probably  both  right ;  I  doubt  not 
that  the  running  action,  if   Mr.  Murray  says  so,   is  rightly 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES.  '^ 

drawn;  but  at  this  time,  every  Venetian  painter  had  bet; 
trained  to  represent  only  slow  and  dignified  motion,  and  not 
till  fifty  3'ears  later,  under  classic  inliuence,  came  the  floating 
and  rushing  force  of  Veronese  and  Tintoret. 

And  I  am  confirmed  in  this  impression  by  the  figure  of  the 
stag  in  the  distance,  which  does  not  run  freely,  and  by  the 
imperfect  gallop  of  St.  George's  horse  in  the  first  subject. 

But  there  are  many  deeper  questions  respecting  this  Si. 
Jerome  subject  than  those  of  artistic  skill.  The  picture  is  ? 
jest  indeed  ;  but  is  it  a  jest  only  ?  Is  the  tradition  itself  n 
jest?  or  only  by  our  own  fault,  and  perhaps  Carpaccio's,  do 
we  make  it  so  ? 

In  the  first  place,  then,  you  will  please  to  remember,  as  I 
have  often  told  you,  Carpaccio  is  not  answerable  for  himself 
in  this  matter.  He  begins  to  think  of  his  subject,  intending, 
doubtless,  to  execute  it  quite  seriously.  But  his  mind  no 
sooner  fastens  on  it  than  the  vision  of  it  comes  to  him  as  :i 
jest,  and  he  is  forced  to  paint  it.  Forced  by  the  fates, — 
dealing  with  the  fate  of  Venice  and  Christendom.  We  must 
ask  of  Atropos,  not  of  Carpaccio,  why  this  picture  makes  us 
laugh  ;  and  why  the  tradition  it  records  has  become  to  us  a 
dream  and  a  scorn.  No  day  of  my  life  passes  now  to  its  sun- 
set, without  leaving  me  more  doubtful  of  all  our  cherished 
contempts,  and  more  earnest  to  discover  what  root  there 
was  for  the  stories  of  good  men,  which  are  now  the  mocker's 
treasure. 

And  I  want  to  read  a  good  "  Life  of  St.  Jerome."  And  if  I 
go  to  Mr.  Ongaria's  I  shall  find,  I  suppose,  the  autobiography 
of  George  Sand,  and  the  life  of—  Mr.  Sterhng,  perhaps  ;  and 
Mr.  Werner,  written  by  my  own  master,  and  which  indet  I 
I've  read,  but  forget  now  who  either  Mr.  Sterling  or  ]VL\  Wer- 
ner were  ;  and  jjerhaps,  in  religious  literature,  the  life  of  Mr. 
Wilberforce  and  of  Mrs.  Fry  ;  but  not  the  smallest  scrap  of 
information  about  St.  Jerome.  To  whom,  nevertheless,  all 
the  charity  of  George  Sand,  and  all  the  ingenuity  of  Mr.  Ster- 
ling, and  all  the  benevolence  of  Mr.  Wilberforce,  and  a  great 
quantity,  if  we  knew  it,  of  the  daily  comfort  and  peace  of  our 
own  little  lives  every  day,  are  verily  ov/ing  ;  as  to  a  lovely  ol  - 


104  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 

pair  of  spiritual  spectacles,  without  whom  we  never  had  read 
a  word  of  the  "  Protestant  Bible."  It  is  of  no  use,  however, 
to  begin  a  life  of  St.  Jerome  now — and  of  little  use  to  look  at 
these  pictures  without  a  life  of  St.  Jerome ;  but  only  thus 
much  you  should  be  clear  in  knowing  about  him,  as  not  in 
the  least  doubtful  or  mythical,  but  wholly  true,  and  the  be- 
ginning of  facts  quite  hmitlessly  important  to  all  modern 
Europe — namely,  that  he  was  born  of  good,  or  at  least  rich 
family,  in  Dalmatia,  virtually  midway  between  the  east  and 
the  west ;  that  he  made  the  great  Eastern  book,  the  Bible, 
legible  in  the  west ;  that  he  was  the  first  great  teacher  of  the 
nobleness  of  ascetic  scholarship  and  courtesy,  as  opposed  to 
ascetic  savageness  : — the  founder,  properly,  of  the  ordered 
cell  and  tended  garden,  where  before  was  but  the  desert  and 
the  wild  wood  ;  and  that  he  died  in  the  monastery  he  had 
Pounded  at  Bethlehem. 

It  is  this  union  of  gentleness  and  refinement  with  noble 
continence, — this  love  and  imagination  illuminating  the 
mountain  cave  into  a  frescoed  cloister,  and  winning  its  savage 
beasts  into  domestic  friends,  which  Carpaccio  has  been 
ordered  to  paint  for  you  ;  which,  with  ceaseless  exquisiteness 
Df  fancy,  he  fills  these  three  canvases  with  the  incidents  of, — 
meaning,  as  I  believe,  the  story  of  all  monastic  life,  and 
ieath,  and  spiritual  life  forevermore  :  the  power  of  this  great 
and  wise  and  kind  spirit,  ruling  in  the  perpetual  future  over 
ill  household  scholarship  ;  and  the  help  rendered  by  the  com- 
panion souls  of  the  lower  creatures  to  the  highest  intellect 
md  virtue  of  man. 

And  if  with  the  last  picture  of  St.  Jerome  in  his  study, — his 
tiapp}^  white  dog  watching  his  face — you  will  mentally  com- 
pare a  hunting  piece  by  Rubens,  or  Snyders,  with  the  torn 
clogs  rolled  along  the  ground  in  their  blood, — you  may  per- 
haps begin  to  feel  that  there  is  something  more  serious  in 
this  kaleidoscope  of  St.  George's  Chapel  than  you  at  first  be- 
lieved— which  if  you  now  care  to  follow  out  with  me,  let  ns 
think  over  this  ludicrous  subject  more  quietly. 

What  account  have  we  here  given,  voluntarily  or  involun- 
tarily, of  monastic  life,  by  a  man  of  the  keenest  j^erception, 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES.  105 

living  in  tlie  midst  of  it?  Tliat  all  the  monks  who  have 
caught  sight  of  the  hon  should  be  terrified  out  of  their  wits — 
what  a  curious  witness  to  the  timidity  of  Monasticism  !  Here 
are  people  professing  to  prefer  Heaven  to  earth — preparing 
themselves  for  the  change  as  the  reward  of  all  their  present 
self-deniaL  And  this  is  the  way  they  receive  the  first  chance 
of  it  that  offers  ! 

Evidently  Carpaccio's  impression  of  monks  must  be,  not 
that  they  were  more  brave  or  good  than  other  men  ;  but  that 
they  liked  books,  and  gardens,  and  peace,  and  were  afraid  of 
death — therefore,  retiring  from  the  warrior's  danger  of  chiv- 
alry somewhat  selfishly  and  meanly.  He  clearly  takes  the 
knight's  view  of  them.  What  he  may  afterwards  tell  us  of 
good  concerning  them,  will  not  be  from  a  witness  prejudiced 
in  their  favour.      Some  good  he  tells  us,  however,  even  here. 

The  pleasant  order  in  wildness  of  the  trees  ;  the  buildings 
for  agricultural  and  religious  use,  set  down  as  if  in  an  Amer- 
ican clearing,  here  and  there,  as  the  ground  was  got  ready 
for  them  ;  the  perfect  grace  of  cheerful,  pure,  illuminating 
art,  filling  every  little  cornice-cusp  of  the  chapel  with  its  jewel- 
picture  of  a  saint/ — last,  and  chiefly,  the  perfect  kindness  to 
and  fondness  for,  all  sorts  of  animals.  Cannot  you  better  con- 
ceive, as  you  gaze  upon  the  happy  scene,  what  manner  of  men 
they  were  who  first  secured  from  noise  of  war  the  sweet  nooks 
of  meadow  beside  your  own  mountain  streams  at  Bolton,  and 
Fountains,  Furness  and  Tintern  ?  But  of  the  saint  himself 
Carpaccio  has  all  good  to  tell  you.  Common  monks  were,  at 
least,  harmless  creatui-es  ;  but  here  is  a  strong  and  beneficent 
one.  "  Calm,  before  the  Lion  !  "  say  C.  C.  with  their  usual 
perspicacity,  as  if  the  story  were  that  the  saint  alone  had  cour- 
age to  confront  the  raging  beast — a  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den  ! 
They  might  as  well  say  of  Carpaccio's  Venetian  beauty  that 
.^he  is  "calm  before  the  lapdog."  The  saint  is  leading  in  his 
new  pet,  as  he  would  a  lamb,  and  vainly  expostulating  with 
liis  brethren  for  being  ridiculous.  The  grass  on  which  they 
have  dropped  their  books  is  beset  w^ith  flowers  ;  there  is  no 

'  See  the  piece  of  distant  monastery  in  the  lion  picture,  with  its  frag- 
ments of  fresco  on  wall,  its  ivy-covered  door,  and  illuminr»ted  cornice. 


106  THE  SHRTNE  OF  THE  SLA  VE8, 

sign  of  trouble  or  asceticism  on  the  old  man's  face,  he  is  evi- 
dently altogether  happy,  his  life  being  complete,  and  the  en- 
tire scene  one  of  the  ideal  simplicity  and  security  of  heavenly 
wisdom  :  ''  Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her 
paths  are  peace." 

And  now  pass  to  the  second  picture.  At  first  you  will  per- 
haps see  principally  its  wealc  monks — looking  more  foolish  in 
their  sorrow  than  ever  they  did  in.  their  fear.  Portraits  these, 
evidently,  ever}^  soul  of  them — chiefiy  the  one  in  spectacles^, 
reading  the  funeral  service  so  perfunctorily, — types,  through- 
out, of  the  supreme  commonplace;  alike  in  action  and  expres- 
sion, except  those  quiet  ones  in  purple  on  the  right,  and  the 
grand  old  man  on  crutches,  come  to  see  this  sight. 

But  St.  Jerome  himself  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  eager 
heart  of  him  quiet,  to  such  uttermost  quietness^— the  body 
lying — look  — absolutely  flat  like  clay,  as  if  it  had  been  beat 
down,  and  clung,  clogged,  all  along  to  the  marble.  Earth  to 
earth  mdeed.  Level  clay  and  inlaid  rock  now  all  one — and 
the  noble  head  senseless  as  a  stone,  with  a  stone  for  its  jdII- 
lowv 

There  they  gather  and  kneel  about  it — wondering,  I  think, 
more  than  pitying.  To  see  what  was  yesterday  the  great  Life 
in  the  midst  of  them,  laid  thus !  But,  so  far  as  they  do  not 
wonder,  they  pity  onl}^  and  giieve.  There  is  no  looking  for 
his  soul  in  the  clouds, — no  worship  of  relics  here,  implied  even 
in  the  kneeling  figures.  All  look  down,  woefully,  wistfully,  as 
into  a  grave.  "And  so  Death  passed  upon  all  men,  for  that 
all  have  sinned." 

This  is  Carpaccio's  message  to  us.  And  lest  you  should  not 
read  it,  and  carelessly  think  that  he  meant  only  the  usual  com- 
monplace of  the  sacredness  and  blessedness  of  the  death  of  the 
righteous, — look  into  the  narrow  shadow  in  the  corner  of  the 
house  at  the  left  hand  side,  where,  on  the  strange  forked  and 
leafless  tree  that  occupies  it,  are  set  the  cross  and  little  vessel 
of  holy  water  beneath,  and  above,  the  skull,  which  are  always 
the  sigiis  of  St.  Jerome's  place  of  prayer  in  the  desert. 

The  lower  jaw  has  fallen  from  the  skull  into  the  vessel  of  holy 


THE  SHRINE   OF   THE  SLAVES.  107 

It  is  but  a  little  sign, — ^but  you  will  soon  know  how  much 
this  painter  indicates  by  such  things,  and  that  here  he  means 
indeed  that  for  the  greatest,  as  the  meanest,  of  the  sons  of 
Adam,  death  is  still  the  sign  of  their  sin  ;  and  that  though  in 
Chiist  all  shall  be  made  alive,  yet  also  in  Adam  all  die  ;  and 
this  return  to  their  earth  is  not  in  itself  the  coming  of  peace, 
but  the  infliction  of  shame. 

At  the  lower  edge  of  the  marble  pavement  is  one  of  Car- 
paccio's  lovely  signatures,  on  a  white  scroll,  held  in  its  mouth 
by  a  tiny  lizard. 

And  now  you  will  be  able  to  enter  into  the  joy  of  the  last 
picture,  the  life  of  St.  Jerome  in  Heaven. 

I  had  no  thought,  myself,  of  this  being  the  meaning  of  such 
closing  scene  ;  but  the  evidence  for  this  reading  of  it,  laid  be- 
fore me  by  my  fellow-worker,  Mr.  Anderson,  seems  to  me,  in 
the  concurrence  of  its  many  clauses,  irresistible  ;  and  this  at 
least  is  certain,  that  as  the  opposite  St.  George  represents  the 
perfect  Mastery  of  the  body,  in  contest  with  the  lusts  of  the 
Flesh,  this  of  St.  Jerome  represents  the  perfect  Mastery  of 
the  mind,  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  right  desires  of  the  Spirit  : 
and  all  the  arts  of  man, — music  (a  long  passage  of  melody 
written  clear  on  one  of  the  fallen  scrolls),  painting  (in  the  il- 
luminated missal  and  golden  alcove),  and  sculpture  (in  all  tho 
forms  of  furniture  and  the  bronze  work  of  scattered  orna- 
ments),— these — and  the  glad  fidelity  of  the  lower  animals, — 
all  subjected  in  pleasant  service  to  the  more  and  more  perfect 
reading  and  teaching  of  the  Word  of  God ; — read,  not  in 
written  pages  cliiefly,  but  with  uj)lifted  eyes  by  the  light  of 
Heaven  itself,  entering  and  filling  the  mn^'^i'^n^  of  T^>in.ov|.il- 
ity. 

This  interpretation  of  the  picture  is  maile  still  more  prob- 
able, by  the  infinite  pains  which  Carpaccio  has  given  to  th^ 
working  of  it.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  find  more  beautiful 
and  right  painting  of  detail,  or  more  truthful  tones  of  atmos- 
l^liere  and  shadow  affecting  interior  colours. 

Here  then  are  the  principal  heads  of  the  symbolic  evidence, 
abstracted  for  us  by  Mr.  Anderson  from  his  complete  accouni 
of  the  whole  series,  now  in  preparation. 


108  THE  SHRIlSfE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 

1.  "  The  position  of  the  picture  seems  to  show  that  it  sums 
up  the  whole  matter.  The  St.  George  series  reads  from  left 
to  right.  So,  chronologically,  the  two  others  of  St.  Jerome  ; 
but  this,  which  should  according  to  the  story  have  been  first, 
appears  after  the  death. 

2.  "  The  figure  on  the  altar  is — most  unusually — our  Lord 
with  the  EesuiTection -banner.  The  shadow  of  this  figure  falls 
on  the  wall  so  as  to  make  a  crest  for  the  mitre  on  the  altar — 

*  Helmet  of  Salvation.'  ....  The  mitre  (by  comparison  with 
St.  Ursula's  arrival  in  Eome  it  is  a  cardinal's  mitre),  censer, 
and  crosier,  are  laid  aside. 

3.  "  The  Communion  and  Baptismal  vessels  are  also  laid 
aside  under  this  altar,  not  of  the  dead  but  of  the  Eisen  Lord. 
The  curtain  falling  from  the  altar  is  drawn  aside  that  we  may 
notice  this. 

4.  "  In  the  mosaic-covered  recess  above  the  altar  there  is 
prominently  inlaid  the  figure  of  a  cherub  or  seraph  '  che  in 
Dio  pill  I'occhio  ha  fisso.' 

5.  ''  Comparing  the  colours  of  the  winged  and  four-footed 
parts  of  the  '  animal  binato '  in  the  Purgatoi*y,  it  is  I  believe 
important  to  notice  that  the  statue  of  our  Lord  is  gold,  the 
dress  of  St.  Jerome  red  and  white,  and  over  the  shoulders  a 
cape  of  the  brown  colour  of  earth. 

6.  "  While  candles  blaze  round  the  dead  Jerome  in  the  pre- 
vious picture,  the  candlesticks  on  the  altar  here  are  empty — 

*  they  need  no  candle.' 

7.  '^The  two  round-topped  windows  in  the  line  behind  the 
square  one  through  which  St.  Jerome  gazes,  are  the  ancient 
tables  bearing  the  message  of  light,  delivered  *  of  angels  *  to 
the  faithful,  but  now  put  behind,  and  comparatively  dim  be- 
side the  glory  of  present  and  personal  vision.  Yet  the  light 
which  comes  even  through  the  square  window  streams  through 
bars  like  those  of  a  prison. 

**  *  Through  the  body's  prison  bars 

His  soul  possessed  the  sun  and  stars,' 

Dante  Eosetti  writes  of  Dante  AUighieri ;  but  Carpaccio 
hangs   the  wheels  of   all  visible  heaven   inside   these  bars. 


THE  SIiniNE  OF   THE  SLAVES.  109 

St.  Jerome's  *  possessions '  are  in  a  farther  country.  These 
])ars  are  another  way  of  putting  what  is  signified  by  the 
brown  cape. 

8.  "  The  two  great  volumes  leaning  against  the  wall 
by  the  arm-chair  are  the  same  thing,  the  closed  testa- 
ments. 

9.  **The  documents  hanging  in  the  little  chamber  behind 
;ind  lying  at  the  saint's  feet,  remarkable  for  their  hanging  seals, 
are  shown  by  these  seals  to  be  titles  to  some  property,  or 
testaments;  but  they  are  now  put  aside  or  thrown  underfoot. 
Wh}',  except  that  possession  is  gotten,  that  Christ  is  risen, 
and  that  *  a  testament  is  of  no  strength  at  all  while  the  testator 
liveth '  ?  This  I  believe  is  no  misuse  of  Paul's  words,  but  an 
employment  of  them  in  their  mystic  sense,  just  as  the  New 
Testament  writers  quoted  the  Old  Testament.  There  is  a 
very  prominent  illuminated  K  on  one  of  the  documents  under 
the  table  (I  think  you  have  written  of  it  as  Greek  in  its  lines): 
I  cannot  but  fancy  it  is  the  initial  letter  of  *  ResuiTectio.' 
AVliat  the  music  is,  Caird  has  sent  me  no  information  about ; 
he  was  to  enquire  of  some  friend  who  knew  about  old  church 
music.  The  prominent  bell  and  shell  on  the  table  puzzle  me, 
but  I  am  sure  mean  something.  Is  the  foimer  the  mass- 
beU? 

10.  "  The  statuettes  of  Venus  and  the  horse,  and  the  various 
antique  fragments  on  the  shelf  behind  the  arm-chair  are,  I 
think,  symbols  of  the  world,  of  the  flesh,  placed  behind  even 
the  old  Scripture  studies.  You  remember  Jerome's  early 
learning,  and  the  vision  that  awakened  him  from  Pagan 
thoughts  (to  read  the  laws  of  the  True  City)  with  the  words, 
*Ubi  est  thesauiais  tuus.' 

"I  have  put  these  things  down  without  trying  to  dress 
them  into  an  argument,  that  you  may  judge  them  as  one 
would  gather  them  hap-hazard  from  the  picture.  Individu- 
ally several  of  them  might  be  weak  arguments,  but  together 
I  do  think  they  are  conclusive.  The  key-note  is  struck  by  the 
(inpty  altar  bearing  the  lisen  Lord.  I  do  not  think  Carpaccio 
tliought  of  iramoi-tality  in  the  symbols  derived  from  mor- 
tiil  life,  through  which  the  ordinary  mind  feels  after  it.     Nor 


110  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

surely  did  Dante  (V.  esp.  Par.  IV.  27  and  following  lines). 
And  think  of  the  words  in  Canto  11 : — 

**  'Bentro  dal  ciel  della  Divina  Pace 
Si  gira  uii  corpo  nella  cui  virtute 
Vessel'  di  iutto  suo  contento  giace.' 

But  there  is  no  use  heaping  up  passages,  as  the  sense  that 
in  using  human  language  he  merety  uses  mystic  metaphor  is 
continually  present  in  Dante,  and  often  explicitly  stated. 
And  it  is  surely  the  error  of  regarding  these  picture  writings 
for  children  who  live  in  the  nursery  of  Time  and  Space,  as  if 
they  were  the  truth  itself,  which  can  be  discovered  only 
spiritually,  that  leads  to  the  inconsistencies  of  thought  and 
foolish  talk  of  even  good  men. 

*'St.  Jerome,  in  this  picture,  is  young  and  brown-haired, 
not  bent  and  with  long  white  beard,  as  in  the  two  others.  I 
connect  this  with  the  few  who  have  stretched  their  necks 

*'  *-Per  tempo  al  pan  degli  angeli  del  quale 
Vivesi  qui  ma  non  si  vien  satollo.' 

St.  Jerome  Hves  here  by  what  %8  really  the  immortal  bread ; 
but  shall  not  here  be  filled  with  it  so  as  to  hunger  no 
more  ;  and  under  his  earthly  cloak  comprehends  as  little  per- 
haps the  Great  Love  he  hungers  after  and  is  fed  by,  as  his 
dog  comprehends  him.  I  am  sure  the  dog  is  there  with  some 
such  purpose  of  comparison.  On  that  very  last  quoted  pas- 
sage of  Dante,  Landino's  commentary  (it  was  printed  in 
Venice,  1491)  annotates  the  words  '  che  drizzaste  1  eollo/ 
with  a  quotation, 

**  '  Cum  spectant  animalia  cetera  terram 
Os  liomini  sublime  dedit,  coelum  tueri  jussit.'* 

I  was  myself  brought  entirely  to  pause  of  happy  wonder 
when  first  my  friend  showed  me  the  lessons  hidden  in  these 
pictures  ;  nor  do  I  at  all  expect  the  reader  at  first  to  believe 
them.  But  the  condition  of  his  possible  belief  in  them  is  that 
he  approach  them  with  a  pure  heart  and  a  meek  one  ;  for  this 


TEE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES.  Ill 

Carpaccio  teaching  is  like  the  tahsman  of  Saladin,  which, 
dipped  in  pui'e  water,  made  it  a  healing  draught,  but  by  it- 
self seemed  only  a  little  inwoven  web  of  silk  and  gold. 

But  to-day,  that  we  may  bo  able  to  read  better  to-morrow, 
we  will  leave  this  cell  of  sweet  mysteries,  and  examine  some 
of  the  painter's  eaiiier  work,  in  which  we  may  leam  his  way 
of  writing  more  completely,  and  understand  the  degree  in 
which  his  own  personal  character,  or  jorejudices,  or  imperfec- 
tions, mingle  in  the  method  of  his  scholarship,  and  colour  or 
divert  the  current  of  his  inspiration. 

Therefore  now,  taking  gondola  again,  you  must  oe  carried 
through  the  sea-streets  to  a  far-away  church,  in  the  part  of 
Venice  now  wholly  abandoned  to  the  poor,  though  a  kingly 
.; lint's — St  Louis's  :  but  there  are  other  things  in  this  church 
to  be  noted,  besides  Carpaccio,  which  will  be  useful  in  illus- 
tration of  him  ;  and  to  see  these  rightly,  you  must  compare 
with  them  things  of  the  same  kind  in  another  church  where 
there  are  no  Carpaccios, — namely,  St.  Pantaleone,  to  which, 
being  the  nearer,  you  had  better  first  direct  your  gondolier. 

For  the  ceilings  alone  of  these  two  churches,  St.  Pantaleone 
and  St.  zilvise,  are  worth  a  day's  pilgrimage  in  their  sorrow* 
ful  lesson. 

All  the  mischief  that  Paul  Veronese  did  may  be  seen  in  the 
halting  and  hollow  magnificences  of  them  ; — all  the  absurdi- 
ties, either  of  painting  or  piety,  under  afflatus  of  vile  ambition. 
Eoof  puffed  up  and  broken  through,  as  it  were,  with  breath 
of  the  fiend  from  below,  instead  of  pierced  by  heaven's  light 
from  above  ;  the  rags  and  ruins  of  Venetian  skill,  honour,  and 
worship,  exjDloded  all  together  sky-high.  Miracles  of  frantic 
mistake,  of  flaunting  and  thunderous  hypocrisy, — universal 
lie,  shouted  through  speaking-trumpets. 

If  I  could  let  you  stand  for  a  few  minutes,  first  under 
( Uotto's  four-square  vault  at  Assisi,  only  thirty  feet  from  the 
ground,  the  four  triangles  of  it  wiitten  with  the  word  of  God 
close  as  an  illuminated  missal,  and  then  suddenly  take  you 
under  these  vast  staggering  Temples  of  Folly  and  Liiquity, 
you  would  know  what  to  think  of  "modern  development" 
t  henceforth. 


112  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

The  roof  of  St.  Panfcaleone  is,  I  suppose,  the  most  curious 
example  in  Europe  of  the  vulgar  dramatic  effects  of  painting. 
That  of  St.  Alvise  is  little  more  than  a  caricature  of  the  mean 
passion  for  perspective,  which  was  the  first  effect  of  "  science  " 
joining  itself  with  art.  And  under  it,  by  strange  coincidence, 
there  are  also  two  notable  pieces  of  plausible  modern  senti- 
ment,— celebrated  pieces  by  Tiepolo.  He  is  virtually  the  be- 
ginner of  Modei-nism  :  these  two  pictures  of  his  are  exactly 
like  what  a  first-rate  Parisian  Academy  student  would  do,  set- 
ting himself  to  conceive  the  sentiment  of  Christ's  flagellation, 
after  having  read  unlimited  quantities  of  George  Sand  and 
Dumas.  It  is  well  that  they  chance  to  be  here  :  look  thor- 
oughly at  them  and  their  dramatic  chiaroscuros  for  a  little 
time,  observing  that  no  face  is  without  some  expression  of 
crime  or  pain,  and  that  everything  is  always  put  dark  against 
light  or  light  against  dark.  Then  return  to  the  entrance  of 
the  church,  where  under  the  gallery,  frameless  and  neglected, 
hang  eight  old  pictures, — bought,  the  story  goes,  at  a  pawn- 
broker's in  the  Giudecca  for  forty  sous  each,' — to  me  among 
the  most  interesting  pieces  of  art  in  North  Italy,  for  they  are 
the  only  examples  I  know  of  an  entirely  great  man's  work  in 
extreme  youth.  They  are  Carpaccio's,  when  he  cannot  have 
been  more  than  eight  or  ten  years  old,  and  painted  then  half 
in  precocious  pride  and  half  in  play.  I  would  give  anything 
to  know  their  real  history.  "School  pictures,"  C.  C.  call 
them  !  as  if  they  were  merely  bad  imitations,  when  they  are 
the  most  unaccountable  and  unexpected  pieces  of  absurd 
fancy  that  ever  came  into  a  boy's  head,  and  scrabbled,  rather 
than  painted,  by  a  boy's  hand, — yet,  with  the  eternal  master- 
touch  in  them  already. 

Subjects. — 1.  Kachel  at  the  Well.  2.  Jacob  and  his  Sons 
before  Joseph.  3.  Tobias  and  the  Angel.  4.  The  Three 
Holy  Children.  5.  Job.  6.  Moses,  and  Adoration  of  Golden 
Calf  (C.  C).  7.  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  8.  Joshua 
and  falling  Jericho. 

1  **  Originally  in  St.  Maria  della  Vergine  "  (C.  C).  Why  are  not  the 
documents  on  the  authority  of  which  these  statements  are  made  given 
clearly  ? 


THE  SHRIKE  OF  THE  SLAVES.  113 

In  all  these  pictures  the  qualities  of  Carpaccio  are  already 
entirely  pronounced  ;  the  grace,  quaintness,  simplicity,  and 
deep  intentness  on  the  meaning  of  incidents.  I  don't  know 
if  the  glim  statue  in  No.  4  is,  as  C.  C.  have  it,  the  statue  of 
Nebuchadnezzar's  dream,  or  that  which  he  erected  for  the 
three  holy  ones  to  worshij), — and  already  I  forget  how  the 
"  worship  of  the  golden  calf  "  according  to  C.  C,  and  "  Moses'* 
according  to  my  note,  (and  I  believe  the  inscription,  for  most 
of,  if  not  all,  the  subjects  are  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the 
persons  represented,)  are  relatively  pourtrayed.  But  I  have 
not  forgotten,  and  beg  my  readers  to  note  specially,  the  ex- 
quisite strangeness  of  the  boy's  rendering  of  the  meeting  of 
Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  One  would  have  expected 
the  Queen's  retinue,  and  her  spice-bearing  camels,  and  Solo- 
mon's house  and  his  servants,  and  his  cup-bearers  in  all  their 
glory  ;  and  instead  of  this,  Solomon  and  the  Queen  stand  at 
the  opposite  ends  of  a  little  wooden  bridge  over  a  ditch,  and 
there  is  not  another  soul  near  them, — and  the  question  seems 
to  be  which  first  shall  set  foot  on  it ! 

Now,  what  can  we  expect  in  the  future  of  the  man  or  boy 
who  conceives  his  subjects,  or  is  liable  to  conceive  them, 
after  this  sort  ?  There  is  clearly  something  in  his  head  which 
we  cannot  at  all  make  out ;  a  ditch  must  be  to  him  the  Eubi- 
con,  the  Euphrates,  the  Red  Sea, — Heaven  only  knows  what ! 
a  wooden  bridge  must  be  Rialto  in  embryo.  This  unattended 
King  and  Queen  must  mean  the  pre-eminence  of  uncounselled 
royalty,  or  what  not ;  in  a  word,  there's  no  saying,  and  no 
criticizing  him ;  and  the  less,  because  his  gift  of  colour  and 
his  enjoyment  of  all  \4sible  things  around  him  are  so  intense, 
so  instinctive,  and  so  constant,  that  he  is  never  to  be  thought 
of  as  a  responsible  person,  but  only  as  a  kind  of  magic  mirror 
which  flashes  back  instantly  whatever  it  sees  beautifully  ar- 
ranged, but  yet  will  flash  back  commonplace  things  often  as 
I   ithfully  as  others. 

I  was  especially  struck  with  this  character  of  his,  as  opposed 
to  the  grave  and  balanced  design  of  Luini,  when  after  work- 
ing six  months  with  Carpaccio,  I  went  back  to  the  St. 
Stephen  at  Milan,  in  the  Monasterio  Maggiore.  In  order 
y 


114  THE  8immE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

to  do  justice  to  either  painter,  they  should  be  alternately 
studied  for  a  little  while.  In  one  respect,  Luini  greatly  gains, 
and  Carpaccio  suffers  by  this  trial ;  for  whatever  is  in  the 
least  flat  or  hard  in  the  Venetian  is  felt  more  violently  by  con- 
trast with  the  infinite  sweetness  of  the  Lombard's  harmonies, 
while  only  by  contrast  with  the  vivacity  of  the  Venetian  can 
you  entirely  feel  the  depth  in  faintness,  and  the  grace  in 
quietness,  of  Luini's  chiaroscuro.  But  the  principal  point 
of  difference  is  in  the  command  which  Luini  has  over  his 
thoughts,  every  design  of  his  being  concentrated  on  its 
main  purpose  with  quite  visible  art,  and  all  accessories  that 
would  in  the  least  have  interfered  with  it  withdrawn  in 
merciless  asceticism ;  whereas  a  subject  under  Carpaccio's 
hand  is  always  just  as  it  would  or  might  have  occurred  in 
nature  ;  and  amon-g  a  myriad  of  trivial  incidents,  you  are 
left,  by  your  own  sense  and  sympathy,  to  discover  the  vital 
one. 

For  instance,  there  are  two  small  pictures  of  his  in  the  Brera 
gallery  at  Milan,  which  may  at  once  be  compared  with  the 
Luinis  there.  I  find  the  following  notice  of  them  in  my  diary 
for  6th  September,  1876  :— 

*'Here,  in  the  sweet  air,  with  a  whole  world  in  ruin  round 
me.  The  misery  of  my  walk  through  the  Brera  yesterday  no 
tongue  can  tell  ;  but  two  curious  lessons  were  given  me  by 
Carpaccio.  The  first,  in  his  preaching  of  St.  Stephen — Ste- 
phen up  in  the  corner  where  nobody  would  think  of  him  ;  the 
doctors,  one  in  lecture  throne,  the  rest  in  standing  groups 
mostly — Stephen's  face  radiant  with  true  soul  of  heaven, — the 
doctors,  not  monsters  of  iniquity  at  all,  but  superbly  true  and 
quiet  studies  from  the  doctors  of  Carpaccio's  time  ;  doctors  of 
this  world — not  one  with  that  look  of  heaven,  but  respectable 
to  the  uttermost,  able,  just,  penetrating:  a  complete  assembly 
of  highly  trained  old  Oxford  men,  but  with  more  intentness. 
The  second,  the  Virgin  going  up  to  the  temple  ;  and  under 
the  steps  of  it,  a  child  of  ten  or  twelve  with  his  back  to  us, 
dressed  in  a  parti- coloured,  square-cut  robe,  holding  a  fawn  in 
leash,  at  his  side  a  rabbit ;  on  the  steps  under  the  Virgin';^ 
feet  a  bas-relief  of  fierce  fight  of  men  with  horned  monsters 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES.  115 

like  rampant  snails  :  one  with  a  conger-eers  body,  twining 
round  the  limb  of  the  man  who  stiikes  it." 

Now  both  these  pictures  are  liable  to  be  passed  almost 
without  notice  ;  they  scarcely  claim  to  be  compositions  at  all ; 
l)ut  the  one  is  a  confused  group  of  portraits  ;  the  other,  a 
(jiiaiut  piece  of  grotesque,  apjDarently  without  any  meaning, 
the  principal  feature  in  it,  a  child  in  a  parti-coloured 
cloak.  It  is  only  w^hen,  with  more  knowledge  of  what  we 
may  expect  from  the  painter,  we  examine  both  pictures  care- 
fully, that  the  real  sense  of  either  comes  upon  us.  For  the 
heavenly  look  on  the  face  of  Stephen  is  not  set  off  with  raised 
light,  or  opposed  shade,  or  principality  of  place.  The  master 
trusts  only  to  what  nature  herself  would  have  trusted  in — ex- 
pression pure  and  simple.  If  you  cannot  see  heaven  in  the 
boy's  mind,  without  any  turning  on  of  the  stage  lights,  you 
shall  not  see  it  at  all. 

There  is  some  one  else,  however,  whom  you  may  see,  on 
looking  carefully  enough.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  group 
of  old  doctors  is  another  youth,  just  of  Stephen's  age.  And 
:is  the  face  of  Stephen  is  full  of  heavenly  rapture,  so  that  of 
liis  opposite  is  full  of  darkest  wrath, — the  religious  wrath 
which  all  the  authority  of  the  conscience  urges,  instead  of 
quenching.  The  old  doctors  hear  Stephen's  speech  with 
doubtful  pause  of  gloom  ;  but  this  youth  has  no  patience, — 
no  endurance  for  it.  He  will  be  the  first  to  cry.  Away  with 
him, — "  "Whosoever  will  cast  a  stone  at  him,  let  them  lay  their 
mantle  at  my  feet." 

Again — looking  again  and  longer  at  the  other  pictures,  you 
will  first  correct  my  mistake  of  wiiting  "  fawn  " — discovering 
the  creature  held  by  the  boy  to  be  a  unicorn.*  Then  you 
will  at  once  know  that  the  whole  must  be  symbolic  ;  and 
looking  for  the  meaning  of  the  unicorn,  you  find  it  signifies 
'  hastity ;  and  then  you  see  that  the  bas-relief  on  the  steps, 
which  the  little  Virgin  ascends,  must  mean  the  warring  of 
the  old  strengths  of  the  world  with  lust :  which  theme  you 
will  find  presently  taken  up  also  and  completed  by  the  sym- 
bols of  St.  George's  Chapel.  If  now  you  pass  from  these  pict- 
*  Corrected  for  me  by  Mr.  C.  F.  Murray. 


116  TEE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

ures  to  any  of  the  Luini  frescoes  in  the  same  gallery,  you  will 
at  once  recognize  a  total  difference  in  conception  and  treat- 
ment. The  thing  which  Luini  wishes  you  to  observe  is  held 
forth  to  you  with  direct  and  instant  proclamation.  The 
saint,  angel,  or  Madonna,  is  made  central  or  principal ;  every 
figure  in  the  surrounding  group  is  subordinate,  and  every  ac- 
cessory subdued  or  generalized.  All  the  precepts  of  conven- 
tional art  are  obeyed,  and  the  invention  and  originality  of  the 
master  are  only  shown  by  the  variety  with  which  he  adorns 
the  commonplace, — by  the  unexpected  grace  with  which  he 
executes  what  all  have  done, — and  the  sudden  freshness  with 
which  he  invests  what  all  have  thought. 

This  external  difference  in  the  manner  of  the  two  painters 
is  connected  with  a  much  deeper  element  in  the  constitution 
of  their  minds.  To  Carpaccio,  whatever  he  has  to  represent 
must  be  a  reality  ;  whether  a  symbol  or  not,  afterwards,  is  no 
matter,  the  first  condition  is  that  it  shall  be  real.  A  serpent, 
or  a  bird,  may  perhaps  mean  iniquity  or  purity  ;  but  pri- 
marily, they  must  have  real  scales  and  feathers.  But  with 
Luini,  everything  is  primarily  an  idea,  and  only  realized  so 
far  as  to  enable  you  to  understand  what  is  meant.  When  St. 
Stephen  stands  beside  Christ  at  his  scourging,  and  turns  to  us 
who  look  on,  asking  with  unmistakable  passion,  ''Was  ever 
sorrow  like  this  sorrow?"  Luini  does  not  mean  that  St. 
Stephen  really  stood  there  ;  but  only  that  the  thought  of  the 
saint  who  first  saw  Christ  in  glory  may  best  lead  us  to  the 
thought  of  Christ  in  pain.  But  when  Carpaccio  paints  St. 
Stephen  preaching,  he  means  to  make  us  believe  that  St. 
Stephen  really  did  preach,  and  as  far  as  he  can,  to  show  ua 
exactly  how  he  did  it. 

And,  lastly,  to  return  to  the  point  at  which  we  left  him. 
His  own  notion  of  the  way  things  happened  may  be  a  very 
curious  one,  and  the  more  so  that  it  cannot  be  regulated  even 
by  himself,  but  is  the  result  of  the  singular  power  he  has  of 
seeing  things  in  vision  as  if  they  were  real.  So  that  when,  as 
we  have  seen,  he  paints  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
standing  at  opposite  ends  of  a  wooden  bridge  over  a  ditch, 
we  are  not  to  suppose  the  two  persons  are  less  real  to  him  on 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLA  VES.  1  1  < 

lliiit  account,  though  absurd  to  us  ;  but  we  are  to  understand 
that  such  a  vision  of  them  did  indeed  appear  to  the  boy  who 
had  passed  all  his  dawning  life  among  wooden  bridges,  over 
ditches  ;  and  had  the  habit  besides  of  spiritualizing,  or  read- 
ing like  a  vision,  whatever  he  saw  with  eyes  either  of  the  body 
or  mind. 

The  delight  which  he  had  in  this  faculty  of  vision,  and  the 
industry  with  which  he  cultivated  it,  can  only  be  justly  esti- 
mated by  close  examination  of  the  marvellous  picture  in  the 
Con-er  Museum,  representing  two  Venetian  ladies  with  their 
pets. 

In  the  last  general  statement  I  have  made  of  the  rank  of 
painters,  I  named  two  pictures  of  John  Bellini,  the  Madonna 
in  San  Zaccaria,  and  that  in  the  sacristy  of  the  Frari,  as,  so 
far  as  my  knowledge  went,  the  two  best  pictures  in  the  world. 
In  that  estimate  of  them  I  of  course  considered  as  one  chief 
element,  their  solemnity  of  purpose — as  another,  their  unpre- 
tending simplicity.  Putting  aside  these  higher  conditions> 
and  looking  only  to  perfection  of  execution  and  essentially 
artistic  power  of  design,  I  rank  this  Carpaccio  above  either  of 
them,  and  therefore,  as  in  these  respects,  the  best  picture  in 
the  world.  I  know  no  other  which  unites  every  nameable 
quality  of  painter's  art  in  so  intense  a  degree — breadth  with 
minuteness,  brilliancy  with  quietness,  decision  with  tender- 
ness, colour  with  light  and  shade  :  all  that  is  faithf  ullest  in  Hol- 
land, fancifullest  in  Venice,  severest  in  Florence,  naturalest 
in  England.  "Whatever  de  Hooghe  could  do  in  shade.  Van 
Eyck  in  detail — Giorgione  in  mass — Titian  in  colour — Bewick 
and  Landseer  in  animal  life,  is  here  at  once  ;  and  I  know  no 
other  picture  in  the  world  which  can  be  compared  with  it. 

It  is  in  tempera,  however,  not  oil :  and  I  must  note  in  pass- 
ing that  many  of  the  qualities  which  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
f  praising  in  Tintoret  and  Cai-paccio,  as  consummate  achieve- 
ments in  oil-paintings,  are,  as  I  have  found  lately,  either  in 
tempera  altogether,  or  tempera  with  oil  above.  And  I  am 
disposed  to  think  that  ultimately  tempera  will  be  found  the 
proper  material  for  the  gi-eater  number  of  most  delightful 
subjects. 


118  THE  JSHEIJSrE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

The  subject,  in  the  present  instance,  is  a  simple  study  of 
animal  life  in  all  its  phases.  I  am  quite  sure  that  this  is  the 
meaning  of  the  picture  in  Carpaccio's  own  mind.  I  suppose 
him  to  have  been  commissioned  to  paint  the  portraits  of  two 
Venetian  ladies — that  he  did  not  altogether  like  his  models, 
but  yet  felt  himself  bound  to  do  his  best  for  them,  and  con- 
trived to  do  what  perfectly  satisfied  them  and  himself  too. 
He  has  painted  their  pretty  faces  and  pretty  shoulders,  their 
pretty  dresses  and  pretty  jewels,  their  pretty  ways  and  their 
pretty  playmates — and  what  would  they  have  more  ? — he  him- 
self secretly  laughing  at  them  all  the  time,  and  intending  the 
spectators  of  the  future  to  laugh  for  ever. 

It  may  be,  however,  that  I  err  in  supposing  the  picture  a 
portrait  commission.  It  may  be  simply  a  study  for  practice, 
gathering  together  every  kind  of  thing  which  he  could  get  to 
sit  to  him  quietly,  persuading  the  pretty  ladies  to  sit  to  him 
in  all  their  finery,  and  to  keep  their  pets  quiet  as  long  as  they 
could,  while  yet  he  gave  value  to  this  new  group  of  studies  in 
a  certain  unity  of  satire  against  the  vices  of  society  in  his 
time. 

Of  this  satirical  purpose  there  cannot  be  question  for  a 
moment,  with  any  one  who  knows  the  general  tone  of  the 
painter's  mind,  and  the  traditions  among  which  he  had  been 
educated.  In  all  the  didactic  painting  of  mediaeval  Chris- 
tianity, the  faultful  luxury  of  the  upper  classes  was  symbol- 
ized by  the  knight  with  his  falcon,  and  lady  with  her  pet  dog, 
both  in  splendid  dress.  This  picture  is  only  the  elaboration 
of  the  w^ell-recognized  symbol  of  the  lady  with  her  pets  ;  but 
there  are  two  ladies — mother  and  daughter,  I  think — and  six 
pets,  a  big  dog,  a  little  dog,  a  parroquet,  a  peahen,  a  little 
boy,  and  a  china  vase.  The  youngest  of  the  women  sits  se- 
rene in  her  pride,  her  erect  head  pale  against  the  dark  sky 
— the  elder  is  playing  with  the  two  dogs  ;  the  least,  a  white 
terrier,  she  is  teaching  to  beg,  holding  him  up  by  his  fore- 
paws,  with  her  left  hand ;  in  her  right  is  a  slender  riding- 
whip,  which  the  larger  dog  has  the  end  of  in  his  mouth,  and 
will  not  let  go — his  mistress  also  having  droj^ped  a  letter,^  he 
-  The  painter's  signature  is  on  tlie  supposed  letter. 


THE  SIIRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES,  110 

puts  his  paw  on  that  and  will  not  let  her  pick  it  up,  looking 
out  of  gentlest  eyes  in  arch  watchfulness  to  see  how  far  it  will 
please  her  that  he  should  carry  the  jest.  Behind  him  the 
green  parroquet,  red-eyed,  lifts  its  little  daw  as  if  disliking 
the  marble  pavement ;  then  behind  the  marble  balustrade 
with  gilded  capitals,  the  bird  and  little  boy  are  inlaid  with 
glowing  brown  and  red.  Nothing  of  Hunt  or  Turner  can 
surpass  the  plume  painting  of  the  bird  ;  nor  can  Holbein  sur- 
pass the  precision,  while  he  cannot  equal  the  radiance,  of  the 
2)orcelain  and  jewelleiy. 

To  mark  the  satirical  purpose  of  the  whole,  a  pair  of  ladies' 
shoes  are  put  in  the  corner,  (the  high-stilted  shoe,  being,  in 
fact,  a  slipper  on  the  top  of  a  column,)  which  were  the  gross- 
est and  absurdest  means  of  expressing  female  pride  in  the 
Hfteenth  and  following  centuries. 

In  this  picture,  then,  you  may  discern  at  once  how  Carpac- 
cio  learned  his  business  as  a  painter,  and  to  what  consummate 
j^oint  he  learned  it.' 

And  now,  if  you  have  begun  to  feel  the  power  of  these  minor 
pictures,  you  can  return  to  the  Academy  and  take  up  the  St. 
Ursula  series,  on  which,  however,  I  find  it  hopeless  to  reduce 
my  notes  to  any  available  form  at  present : — the  question  of 
the  influence  of  this  legend  on  Venetian  life  being  involved 
with  enquiries  belonging  properly  to  what  I  am  trying  to  do 
in  "  St.  Mark's  Rest."  This  only  you  have  to  observe  gen- 
erally, that  being  meant  to  occupy  larger  spaces,  the  St.  Ursula 
pictures  are  very  unequal  in  interest,  and  many  portions  seem 
to  me  tired  work,  while  others  are  maintained  by  Mr.  IMurray 
to  be  only  by  the  hands  of  scholars.  This,  however,  I  can  my- 
self assert,  that  I  never  yet  began  to  copy  or  examine  any  por- 
tion of  them  without  continually  increasing  admiration  ;  while 
yet  there  are  certain  shortcomings  and  morbid  faults  through- 

'  Another  Curpaccio,  in  tlie  Correr  Museum,  of  St.  Mary  and  Eliza- 
beth, is  entirely  lovely,  though  slighter  in  work  ;  and  the  so-called  Man- 
tegna,  but  more  probably  (according  to  Mr.  Murray)  early  John  Bellini, 
— the  Transfiguration, — full  of  majesty  and  earnestness.  Note  the  in- 
'^fiibed  "  talk"  with  Moses  and  Elias, — "  Have  pity  upon  me,  have  pity 
pon  me,  oh  ye  my  friends.'* 


T^^U  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 

out,  unaccountable,  and  rendering  the  greater  part  of  the  work 
powerless  for  good  to  the  general  public.  Taken  as  a  con- 
nected series,  the  varying  personality  of  the  saint  destroys  its 
interest  totally.  The  girl  talking  to  her  father  in  539  is  not 
the  girl  who  dreams  in  533  ;  and  the  gentle  little  dreamer  is 
still  less  like  the  severe,  stiffly  dressed,  and  not  in  any  supreme 
degree  well  favoured,  bride,  in  542  ;  while  the  middle-aged 
woman,  without  any  claim  to  beauty  at  all,  who  occupies  the 
principal  place  in  the  final  Gloria,  cannot  by  any  effort  of  im- 
agination be  connected  with  the  figure  of  the  young  girl  kneel- 
ing for  the  Pope's  blessing  in  546. 

But  indeed  had  the  story  been  as  consistently  told  as  the 
accessories  are  perfectly  painted,  there  would  have  been  no 
occasion  for  me  now  to  be  lecturing  on  the  beauties  of  Car- 
paccio.  The  public  would  long  since  have  discovered  them, 
and  adopted  him  for  a  favourite.  That  precisely  in  the  par- 
ticulars which  would  win  popular  attention,  the  men  whom  it 
would  be  most  profitable  for  the  public  to  study  should  so 
often  fail,  becomes  to  me,  as  I  grow  older,  one  of  those  deepest 
mysteries  of  life,  which  I  only  can  hope  to  have  explained  to 
me  when  my  task  of  interpretation  is  ended. 

But,  for  the  sake  of  Christian  charity,  I  would  ask  every 
generous  Protestant  to  pause  for  a  while  before  the  meeting 
inider  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  (546). 

"Nobody  knows  anything  about  those  old  things,"  said  an 
English  paterfamilias  to  some  enquiring  member  of  his  family, 
in  the  hearing  of  my  assistant,  then  at  work  on  tliis  picture. 
Which  saying  is  indeed  supremely  true  of  us  nationally.  But 
without  requirmg  us  to  know  anything,  this  picture  puts  be- 
fore us  some  certainties  respecting  mediaeval  Catholicism, 
which  we  shall  do  well  to  remember. 

In  the  first  place,  you  will  find  that  all  these  bishops  and 
cardinals  are  evidently  portraits.  Their  faces  are  too  varied 
— too  quiet — too  complete — to  have  been  invented  by  even 
the  mightiest  invention.  Carpaccio  was  simply  taking  the 
features  of  the  priesthood  of  his  time,  throwing  aside,  doubt- 
less, here  and  there,  matter  of  offence  ; — the  too  settled  gloom 
of  one,  the  evident  subtlety  of  another,  the  sensuality  of  a 


tliird  ;  butJincling  beneath  all  that,  what  was  indeed  the  con- 
Btitutional  power  and  pith  of  their  minds,— in  the  deep  of 
them,  rightly  thoughtful,  tender,  and  humble. 

There  is  one  cuiious  little  piece  of  satire  on  the  fault  of 
the  Church  in  making  cardinals  of  too  young  persons.  The 
third,  in  the  row  of  four  behind  St.  Ursula,  is  a  mere  boy, 
very  beautiful,  but  utterly  careless  of  what  is  going  on,  and 
evidently  no  more  fit  to  be  a  cardinal  than  a  young  calf  would 
be.  The  stiffness  of  his  white  dress,  standing  up  under  his 
chin  as  if  he  had  only  put  it  on  that  day,  draws  especial  atten- 
tion to  him. 

The  one  opposite  to  him  also,  without  this  piece  of  white 
dress,  seems  to  be  a  mere  man  of  the  world.  But  the  others 
have  all  grave  and  refined  faces.  That  of  the  Pope  himself  is 
quite  exquisite  in  its  purity,  simple-heartedness,  and  joyful 
wonder  at  the  sight  of  the  child  kneeling  at  his  feet,  in  whom 
he  recognizes  one  whom  he  is  himself  to  learn  of,  and  follow. 

The  more  I  looked  at  this  picture,  the  more  I  became  won- 
derstruck  at  the  way  the  faith  of  the  Christian  Church  has 
been  delivered  to  us  through  a  series  of  fables,  which,  partly 
meant  as  such,  are  over-ruled  into  expressions  of  truth — but 
how  much  truth,  it  is  only  by  our  own  virtuous  Hfe  that  we 
can  know.  Only  remember  always  in  criticizing  such  a  pict- 
ure, that  it  no  more  means  to  tell  you  as  a  fact  ^  that  St. 
Ursula  led  this  long  procession  from  the  sea  and  knelt  thus 
before  the  Pope,  than  Mantegna's  St.  Sebastian  means  that 
the  saint  ever  stood  quietly  and  happily,  stuck  full  of  arrows. 
It  is  as  much  a  mythic  symbol  as  the  circles  and  crosses  of 
the  Carita ;  but  only  Carpaccio  carries  out  his  symbol  into 
delighted  reahzation,  so  that  it  begins  to  be  absurd  to  us  in 
f  he  perceived  impossibihty.  But  it  only  signifies  the  essential 
!  uth  of  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost  fiUing  the  whole  body  of 

le  Christian  Church  with  visible  inspiration,  sometimes  in 

Id  men,  sometimes  in  children  ;  yet  never  breaking  the  laws 
<  f  established  authority  and  subordination — the  greater  saint 

'  If  it  lutd  been  a  fact,  of  course  he  would  have  liked  it  all  the  better, 
as  in  the  picture  of  St.  Stephen  ;  but  though  only  an  idea,  it  must  b« 
n  alizod  to  the  full. 


123  TEE  SERINE  OF  TEE  SLAVES. 

blessed  by  the  lesser,  when  the  lesser  is  in  the  higher  place 
of  authority,  and  all  the  common  and  natural  glories  and  de- 
lights of  the  world  made  holy  by  its  influence  :  field,  and 
earth,  and  mountain,  and  sea,  and  bright  maiden's  grace,  and 
old  men's  quietness, — all  in  one  music  of  moving  peace — the 
very  procession  of  them  in  their  multitude  like  a  chanted 
liyirm — the  purple  standards  drooping  in  the  light  air  that  yet 
can  lift  St.  George's  gonfalon  ;  ^  and  the  angel  Michael  alight- 
ing— himself  seen  in  vision  instead  of  his  statue — on  the 
Angel's  tower,  sheathing  his  sword. 

What  I  have  to  say  respecting  the  picture  that  closes  the 
series,  the  martyrdom  and  funeral,  is  partly  saddening,  partly 
depreciatory,  and  shall  be  reserved  for  another  place.  The 
picture  itself  has  been  more  injured  and  repainted  than  any 
other  (the  face  of  the  recumbent  figure  entirely  so)  ;  and 
though  it  is  full  of  marvellous  passages,  I  hope  that  the  gen- 
eral traveller  will  seal  his  memory  of  Carpaccio  in  the  picture 
last  described. 

^  It  is  especially  to  be  noted  with  Carpaccio,  and  perhaps  more  in  this 
than  any  other  of  the  series,  that  he  represents  the  beauty  of  religion 
always  in  animating  the  present  world,  and  never  gives  the  charm  to 
the  clear  far-away  sky  which  is  so  constant  in  Florentine  sacred  pictures. 


SECOND    SUPPLEMENT. 

THE    PLxlCE    OF    DEAGOI^^Se 

JAMES  REDDIE  ANDERSON,  M.A. 


PREFACE. 


Among  the  many  discomforts  of  advancing  age,  which  no 
one  understands  till  he  feels  them,  there  is  one  which  I  sel- 
dom have  heard  complained  of,  and  which,  therefore,  I  find 
unexpectedly  disagreeable.  I  knew,  by  report,  that  when  I 
grew  old  I  should  most  probably  wish  to  be  3'oung  again  ; 
and,  verj'  certainly,  be  ashamed  of  much  that  I  had  done,  or 
omitted,  in  the  active  years  of  life.  I  was  prepared  for  sor- 
row in  the  loss  of  friends  by  death  ;  and  for  pain,  in  the  loss 
of  myself,  by  weakness  or  sickness.  These,  and  many  other 
minor  calamities,  I  have  been  long  accustomed  to  anticipate ; 
and  therefore  to  read,  in  preparation  for  them,  the  confes- 
sions of  the  w^eak,  and  the  consolations  of  the  wise. 

But,  as  the  time  of  rest,  or  of  departure,  approaches  me, 
not  only  do  many  of  the  evils  I  had  heard  of,  and  prepared 
for,  present  themselves  in  more  grievous  shapes  than  I  had 
expected  ;  but  one  which  I  had  scarcely  ever  heard  of,  tor- 
ments me  increasingly  every  hour. 

I  had  understood  it  to  be  in  the  order  of  things  that  the 
aged  should  lament  their  vanishing  life  as  an  instrument  they 
had  never  used,  now  to  be  taken  away  from  them  ;  but  not  as 
an  instrument,  only  then  perfectly  tempered  and  sharpened, 
and  snatched  out  of  their  hands  at  the  instant  they  could  have 
done  some  real  serv'ice  with  it.  Whereas,  my  own  feeling, 
now,  is  that  everything  which  has  hitherto  happened  to  me, 
or  been  done  by  me,  whether  well  or  ill,  has  been  fitting  me 
to  take  greater  fortune  more  prudently,  and  do  better  work 
more  thoroughly.  And  just  when  I  seem  to  be  coming  out  of 
school — very  soiTy  to  have  been  such  a  foolish  boy,  yet  hav- 
ing taken  a  prize  or  two,  and  expecting  to  enter  now  upon 


126  PREFACE. 

som<i  more  serious  business  than  cricket, — I  am  dismissed  by 
the  Master  I  hoped  to  serve,  with  a — "  That's  all  I  want  of 
you,  sir," 

I  imagine  the  sorrowfulness  of  these  feelings  must  be 
abated,  in  the  minds  of  most  men,  by  a  pleasant  vanity  in 
their  hope  of  being  remembered  as  the  discoverers,  at  least, 
of  some  important  truth,  or  the  founders  of  some  exclusive 
system  called  after  their  own  names.  But  I  have  never  ap- 
plied myself  to  discover  anything,  being  content  to  praise 
w^hat  had  already  been  discovered  ;  and  the  only  doctrine  or 
system  peculiar  to  me  is  the  abhorrence  of  all  that  is  doctrinal 
instead  of  demonstrable,  and  of  all  that  is  systematic  instead 
of  useful ;  so  that  no  true  disciple  of  mine  will  ever  be  a 
"  Euskinian  "  ! — he  will  follow,  not  me,  but  the  instincts  of  his 
own  soul,  and  the  guidance  of  its  Creator.  .  Which,  though 
not  a  sorrowful  subject  of  contemplation  in  itself,  leaves  me 
none  of  the  common  props  and  crutches  of  halting  pride.  I 
know  myself  to  be  a  true  master,  because  my  pupils  are  w^ell 
on  the  w^ay  to  do  better  than  I  have  done  ;  but  there  is  not 
always  a  sense  of  extreme  pleasure  in  watching  their  advance, 
where  one  has  no  more  strength,  though  more  than  ever  the 
will,  to  companion  them. 

Not  always — be  it  again  confessed  ;  but  when  I  first  read 
the  legend  of  St.  George,  which  here  follows,  my  eyes  grew 
wet  with  tears  of  true  delight  ;  first,  in  the  knowledge  of  so 
many  beautiful  things,  at  once  given  to  me  ;  and  then  in  the 
surety  of  the  wide  good  that  the  work  thus  begun  would 
spring  up  into,  in  w^ays  before  wholly  unconceived  by  me.  It 
was  like  coming  to  the  brow  of  some  healthy  moorland,  where 
here  and  there  one  had  watched,  or  helped,  the  reaper  of 
some  patch  of  thinly  scattered  corn  ;  and  seeing  suddenly  a 
gTeat  plain  white  to  the  harvest,  far  as  the  horizon.  That  the 
first-fruits  of  it  might  be  given  in  no  manner  of  self-exaltation 
— Fors  has  determined  that  my  young  scholar  should  have 
his  part  of  mortification  as  well  as  I,  just  in  the  degree  in 
which  either  of  us  may  be  mortified  in  the  success  of  others. 
For  we  both  thought  that  the  tracing  of  this  chain  of  tra- 
dition in  the  story  of  St.  George  was  ours  alone  ;  and  that  we 


rni:rA':i:.  1^7 

had  rather  to  apprehend  the  doubt  of  our  result,  than  the  dis^- 
pute  of  our  originaHty.  Nor  was  it,  indeed,  without  extreme 
discomfiture  and  vexation  that  after  I  had  been  hindered 
from  pubhshing  this  paper  for  upwards  of  ten  months  from 
the  time  it  was  fii-st  put  into  my  hands,  I  read,  on  a  bright 
autumn  mornmg  at  Brantwood,  when  I  expected  the  author's 
visit,  (the  first  he  had  made  to  me  in  my  own  house,)  a  para- 
gi'aph  in  the  "  Spectator,"  giving  abstract  of  exactly  the  same 
historical  statements,  made  by  a  French  antiquary,  M.  Cler- 
mont-Ganneau. 

I  am  well  assured  that  Professor  Airey  was  not  more 
grieved,  though  I  hope  he  was  more  conscience-stricken,  for 
his  delay  in  the  publication  of  Mr.  Adams'  calculations,  than  I 
was,  for  some  days  after  seeing  this  anticipation  of  my  friend's 
discoveries.  He  relieved  my  mind  himself,  after  looking  into 
the  matter,  by  pointing  out  to  me  that  the  original  paper  had 
been  read  by  JM  Clei-mont-Ganneau,  before  the  Academie  des 
Inscriptions  et  Belles-lettres  of  Paris,  two  months  before  his 
own  investigations  had  begun,  and  that  all  question  of  prior- 
ity was,  therefore,  at  an  end.  It  remained  for  us  only  to  sur- 
render, both  of  us,  what  complacency  we  should  have  had  in 
first  announcing  these  facts ;  and  to  take  a  nobler  pleasure  in 
the  confirmation  afforded  of  their  truth  by  the  coincidence,  to 
a  degree  of  accuracy  which  neither  of  us  had  ever  known  take 
place  before  in  the  work  of  two  entirely  independent  investi- 
gators, between  M.  Clei-mont-Ganneau's  conclusions  and  our 
own.  I  therefore  desired  my  friend  to  make  no  alterations  in 
]iis  paper  as  it  then  stood,  and  to  make  no  reference  himself 
to  the  French  author,  but  to  complete  his  own  course  of  in- 
vestigation independently,  as  it  was  begun.  We  shall  have 
some  bits  all  to  ourselves,  before  we  have  done  ;  and  in  the 
leantime  give  reverent  thanks  to  St  George,  for  his  help,  to 
lance  as  well  as  to  England,  in  enabling  the  two  nations  to 
ad  together  the  truth  of  his  tradition,  on  the  distant  clouds 
of  Heaven  and  Time. 

Ml'.  Andei-son's  work  remains  entirely  distinct,  in  its  inter- 
pretation of  Carpaccio's  picture  by  this  tradition,  and  since  at 
the  mouth  of  two — or  threes  witnesses  shall  a  word  be  cstab- 


128  PREFACE. 

lished,  Carpaccio  himself  thus  becomes  the  third,  and  the 
chief,  witness  to  its  truth  ;  and  to  the  power  of  it  on  the  far- 
thest race  of  the  Knights  of  Venice. 

The  present  essay  treats  only  of  the  first  picture  in  the 
chapel  of  St.  George.  I  hope  it  may  now  be  soon  followed 
by  its  author's  consecutive  studies  of  the  other  subjects,  in 
which  he  has  certainly  no  priority  of  effort  to  recognize,  and 
has,  with  the  help  of  the  good  Saints  and  no  other  persons, 
done  all  that  we  shall  need.  J.  Euskin. 

Brantwood, 

%mi  January,  1878. 


THE    PLACE    OF    DEAGOITS. 


**  '^yvOTjtTas  Br  I  rhu  irofnT^u  Se'ot,  efrrep  jucAAoi  Troirjr^s  atvai,  iroiciv  yivBov^ 
oAX'  ov  \6yops.'* — PUit.  PJwido^  61,  B. 

On  the  eve  of  the  Feast  of  the  Annunciation,  in  the  year  of 
Christ  1452,  the  Council  of  Ten,  by  decree,  permitted  certain 
Dabnatians  settled  in  Venice  to  estabUsh  a  Lay  Brotherhood, 
called  of  St.  George  and  of  St.  Tryphonius.  The  brothers 
caused  to  be  written  in  illuminated  letters  on  the  first  pages 
of  their  minute  book  their  "  memorandum  of  association.'' 
They  desire  to  "  hold  united  in  sacred  bonds  men  of  Dalma- 
tian blood,  to  render  homage  to  God  and  to  His  saints  *b}' 
charitable  endeavours  and  rehgious  ceremonies,  and  to  heljj 
by  holy  sacrifices  the  souls  of  brothers  alive  and  dead."  The 
brotherhood  gave,  and  continues  to  give,  material  support  to 
the  poor  of  Dalmatian  blood  in  Venice ;  money  to  the  old,  and 
education  to  the  young.  For  prayer  and  adoration  it  built 
the  chapel  known  as  St.  George's  of  the  Sclavonians.  In  this 
chapel,  during  the  first  decade  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Car- 
paccio  painted  a  series  of  pictures.  First,  three  from  the 
story  of  St.  Jerome — not  that  St.  Jerome  was  officially  a  patron 
of  the  brothers,  but  a  fellow-countryman,  and  therefore,  as  it 
were,  an  ally  ; — then  three  from  the  story  of  St.  George,  one 
from  that  of  St  Tryphonius,  and  two  smaller  from  the  Gospel 
History.  Allowing  for  doorways,  window,  and  altar,  these 
nine  pictures  fill  the  circuit  of  the  chapel  walls. 

Those  representing  St.  George  are  placed  opposite  those  of 
St.  Jerome.  In  the  anti-chapel  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  Tintoret, 
who  studied,  not  without  result  otherwise,  these  pictui-es  of 
Carpaccio's,  has  placed  the  same  saints  over  against  each  other. 
To  him,  as  to  C^^r'^"<^i'>  ll-y  rr^presented  the  two  sides,  practi- 
u 


0  THE  PLACE   OF  DRAGONS. 

1  and  comtemplative,  of  faithful  life.  This  balance  we  still, 
ough  with  less  completeness,  signify  by  the  linked  names 
Martha  and  Mary,  and  Plato  has  expressed  it  fully  by  the 
spective  functions  assigned  in  his  ideal  state  to  philosophers 
d  guardians.  The  seer  "  able  to  grasp  the  eternal,"  "  spec- 
:or  of  all  time  and  of  all  existence," — you  may  see  him  on 
ur  right  as  you  enter  this  chapel, — recognizes  and  declares 
)d's  Law  :  the  guardian  obeys,  enforces,  and,  if  need  be, 
hts  for  it. 

St.  George,  Husbandman  by  name,  and  "  Tpo7rato<^apo9," 
iumphant  Warrior,  by  title,  secures  righteous  peace,  turn- 
5'  his  spear  into  a  pruning-hook  for  the  earthly  nature  of 
m.  He  is  also  to  be  known  as  "  McyaXofxaprvp"  by  his  deeds, 
e  great  witness  for  God  in  the  world,  and  **Ta)v  dOX-qrcov  6 
ya?  Ta^tapx'^9,"  marshal  and  leader  of  those  who  strive  to 
»tain  an  incorruptible  crown.'  St.  Jerome,  the  seer,  learned 
50  in  all  the  wisdom  of*  the  heathen,  is,  as  Plato  tells  us  such 
man  should  be.  Lost  in  his  longing  after  "  the  universal 
V  that  knits  human  things  with  divine,"  ^  he  shows  himself 
ntle  and  without  fear,  having  no  terror  even  of  death.  ^  In 
e  second  picture  on  our  right  here  we  may  see  with  how 
eat  quiet  the  old  man  has  laid  himself  down  to  die,  even 
ch  a  pillow  beneath  his  head  as  was  under  Jacob's  upon  that 
ght  of  vision  by  the  place  which  he  thenceforward  knew  to 
)  the  "  House  of  God,"  though  "  the  name  of  it  was  called 
leparation '  ^  at  the  first."  ^     The  fantastic  bilingual  inter - 

'  These  titles  are  taken  from  tlie  earliest  (Greek)  records  of  him.  The 
it  corresponds  to  that  of  Baron  Bradwardine's  revered  "  Mareschal- 
ike." 

''  Plat.  Kep.,  VI.  486  A.  ''  Plat.  Rep.,  VI.  486  B. 

*  Luz.  This  word  stands  also  for  the  almond  tree,  flourishing  when 
sire  fails,  and  * '  man  goeth  to  his  long  home. " 

5  In  the  21st  and  22nd  Cantos  of  the  "Paradise,"  Dante,  too,  connects 
e  Dream  of  Jacob  with  the  ascetic,  living  where  "  e  consecrato  un 
mo,  Che  suole  esser  disposto  a  sola  latria."  This  is  in  a  sphere  oi 
aven  where  "la  dolce  sinfonia  del  Paradiso  "  is  heard  by  mortal  ears 
\y  as  overmastering  thunder,  and  where  the  pilgrim  is  taught  that 
I  created  vision,  not  the  seraph's  ''  die  in  Dio  piu  I'occhio  ha  fisso  " 
ay  read  that  eternal  statute  by  whose  appointment  spirits  of  the  saints 
forth  upon  their  Master  s  business  and  return  to  Him  again. 


HIE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS.  131 

pretation  of  Jerome's  name  given  in  the  "  Golden  Legend/' 
standard  of  medijeval  mythology,  speaks  to  the  same  effect : 
"Hieronimus,  quod  est  Sanctum  Nemus,"  Holy  Grove,  "a 
nemore  ubi  aliquando  conversati^s  est,'*  from  that  one  in  which 
he  sometimes  had  his  walk — "  Se  dedit  et  sacri  ne  moris  per- 
palluit  umbra,"  ^  but  not  beneath  the  laurels  of  "  Fun  giogc 
de  Parnaso,"  '^  to  whose  inferior  summit,  only,  Dante  in  thai 
line  alludes,  nor  now  under  olive  boughs — 

"  wliere  the  Attick  bird 
Trills  lier  tliick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long," 

but  where,  once  on  a  winter  night,  shepherds  in  their  vigil 
heard  other  singing,  where  the  palm  bearer  of  burdens,  wit- 
ness of  victorious  hope,  offers  to  every  man,  for  the  gathering, 
fruit  unto  everlasting  life.  "Ad  Bethleem  oppidum  remea- 
vit,  ubi,  prudens  animal,  ad  prsesepe  Domini  se  obtulit  per 
mansurum."  "He  went,  as  though  home,  to  the  town  o\ 
Bethlehem,  and  like  a  wise  domestic  creature  presented 
himself  at  his  Master's  manger  to  abide  there." 

After  the  pictures  of  St.  George  comes  that  of  St.  Try- 
phonius,  telling  how  the  prayer  of  a  little  child  shall  conquei 
the  basilisk  of  earthly  pride,  though  the  soldier's  spear  cannoi 
overthrow  ihin  monster,  nor  maiden's  zone  bind  him.  Aftei 
the  picture  of  St.  Jerome  we  are  given  the  Calling  of  Matthew, 
in  which  Carpaccio  endeavours  to  declare  how  great  joy  tills 
the  fugitive  servant  of  Eiches  when  at  last  he  does  homage  as 
true  man  of  another  Master.  Between  these  two  is  set  tliG 
central  picture  of  the  nine,  small,  dark  itself,  and  in  a  darl^ 
corner,  in  arrangement  following  pretty  closely  the  simph 
tradition  of  earlier  Venetian  masters.  The  scene  is  an  until^  ' 
garden — the  subject,  the  Agony  of  our  Lord. 

The  prominent  feature  of  the  stories  Carpaccio  has  chosei 
— setting  aside  at  present  the  two  gospel  incidents — is  that, 
though  heartily  Christian,  they  are  historically  drawn  quitt 
as  much  from  Greek  as  from  media3val  mythology.  Even  ir 
the  scenes  from  St.  Jerome's  life,  a  well-known  classical  tale, 

'  Dante,  "Eclogues,"  i.  30.  -  Dante,  ''  Par."  I.  16. 


:3  THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 

lich  mingled  with  his  legend,  is  introduced,  and  all  the 
intings  contain  much  ancient  religious  symbolism.  St. 
yphonius'  conquest  of  the  basilisk  is,  as  we  shall  see,  al- 
)st  2:>urelj  a  legend  of  Apollo.  From  the  middle  ages  on- 
Lrds  it  has  been  often  remarked  how  closely  the  story  of 
.  George  and  the  Dragon  resembles  that  of  Perseus  and 
idromeda.  It  does  not  merely  resemble, — it  is  that  story. 
The  earliest  and  central  shrine  of  St.  George, — his  church, 
nous  during  the  crusades,  at  Lydda, — rose  by  the  stream 
lich  Pausanias,  in  the  second  century,  saw  running  still 
•ed  as  blood,"  because  Perseus  had  bathed  there  after  his 
Qquest  of  the  sea  monster.  From  the  neighbouring  town  of 
ppa,  as  Pliny  tells  us,  the  skeleton  of  that  monster  was 
ought  by  M.  Scaurus  to  Rome  in  the  first  century  b.c.  St. 
rome  was  shown  on  this  very  coast  a  rock  known  by  tra- 
:ion  as  that  to  which  Andromeda  had  been  bound.  Before 
5  day  Josephus  had  seen  in  that  rock  the  holes  worn  by  her 
ters. 

In  the  place  chosen  by  fate  for  this  the  most  famous  and 
ished  example  of  harmony  between  the  old  faith  and  the 
w  there  is  a  strange  double  piece  of  real  mythology.  Many 
3  offended  when  told  that  with  the  best  teaching  of  the 
iristian  Church  Gentile  symbolism  and  story  have  often 
ngled.  Some  still  lament  vanished  dreams  of  the  world's 
)rnii4g,  echo  the 

'*  Voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament," 

woodland  altar  and  sacred  thicket.  But  Lydda  was  the 
y  where  St.  Peter  raised  from  death  to  doubly-marvellous 
:vice  that  loved  garment-maker,  full  of  good  works,  whose 
me  was  Wild  Roe — Greek'  type  of  dawn  with  its  pure 
dons.  And  Lydda  *' was  nigh  unto  Joppa,"  ^  where  was  let 
wn  from  heaven  the  mystic  sheet,  full  of  every  kind  of  liv- 

The  Hebrew  poets,  too,  knew  *'  the  Hind  of  the  glow  of  dawn." 
'  Near  Joppa  the  Moslem  (who  also  reverences  St.  George)  sees  the 
d  of  some  great  final  contest  between  the  Evil  and  the  Good,  upon 
Lom  the  ends  of  the  world  shall  have  come— a  contest  surely  that  will 
luire  the  presence  of  our  warrior-marshal. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS.  133 

ing  creature,  (this,  centuries  before,  a  symbol  familiar  to  the 
farthest  east,')  for  lasting  witness  to  the  faithful  that  through 
his  travailing  creation  God  has  appointed  all  things  to  be 
helpful  and  holy  to  man,  has  mp,de  nothing  common  or  un- 
clean. 

There  is  a  large  body  of  further  evidence  proving  the  origin 
of  the  story  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  from  that  oi 
Perseus.  The  names  of  certain  of  the  persons  concerned  in 
both  coincide.  Secondary,  or  Mer  variations  in  the  place  oi 
the  fight  appear  alike  in  both  legends.  For  example,  the 
scene  of  both  is  sometimes  laid  in  Phoenicia,  north  of  Joppa. 
But  concerning  this  we  may  note  that  a  mythologist  of  the 
age  of  Augustus,*^  recounting  this  legend,  is  careful  to  ex- 
plain that  the  name  of  Joppa  had  since  been  changed  to 
Phoenice.  The  instance  of  most  value,  however — because  con- 
nected with  a  singular  identity  of  local  names — is  that  ac- 
count which  takes  both  Perseus  and  St.  George  to  the  Nile 
delta.  The  Greek  name  of  L^'dda  was  Diospolis.  Now  St. 
Jerome  speaks  strangely  of  Alexandria  as  also  called  Dios- 
polis, and  there  certainly  was  a  DioSpoHs  (later  Lydda)  near 
Alexandria,  where  ''alone  in  Eg}^pt,"  Strabo  tells  us,  "men 
did  not  venerate  the  crocodile,  but  held  it  in  dishonour  as 
most  hateful  of  living  things."  One  of  the  "  Crocodile  towns" 
of  Egypt  was  close  by  this.  Curiously  enough,  considering 
the  locality,  there  was  also  a  "Crocodile-town"  a  short  dis- 
tance north  of  Joppa.  In  Thebes,  too,  the  greater  Diospolis, 
there  was  a  shrine  of  Perseus,  and  near  it  another  KpoKoSctAwD 
ndXt?.  This  persistent  recurrence  of  the  name  Diospolis 
probably  points  to  Perseus'  original  identity  with  the  sun- 
noblest  birth  of  the  Father  of  Ldghts,  In  its  Greek  form  that 
name  was,  of  course,  of  eompai^atively  late  imposition,  but  we 
may  well  conceive  it  to  have  had  reference ""  to  a  local  termi- 
nology and  worship  much  more  ancient.  It  is  not  unreason- 
able to  connect  too  the  Diospolis  of  Cappadocia,  a  region  so 

'  Compare  tlie   illustrations   on   p.   44    pf  Didrou^s    ".  Iconographie 
Clirttienne  "  (English  translation,  p.  41), 
*  Conon    Narr.,  XL. 
'  Compare  the  name  Heliopolis  t:ivcn  Lotli  to  Baalbeck  and  On. 


o4  THE  PLAGE  OF  DEAGOJYS. 

:equently  and  mysteriously  referred  to  as  that  of  St.  George's 
irth. 

Further,  the  stories  both  of  Perseus  and  of  St.  George  are 
uriously  connected  with  the  Persians;  but  this  matter,  to- 
ether  with  the  saint's  Cappadocian  nationahty,  will  fall  to  be 
onsidered  in  relation  to  a  figure  in  the  last  of  Carpaccio's 
bree  pictures,  which  will  open  up  to  us  the  earliest  history 
nd  deepest  meaning  of  the  myth-. 

The  stories  of  the  fight  given  by  Greeks  and  Christians  are 
Imost  identical.  There  is  scarcely  an  incident  in  it  told  by 
ne  set  of  writers  but  occurs  in  the  account  given  by  some 
lember  or  members  of  the  other  set,  even  to  the  crowd  of 
istant  spectators  Carpaccio  has  so  dwelt  upon,  and  to  the 
otive  altars  raised  above  the  body  of  the  monster,  with  the 
tream  of  healing  that  flowed  beside  them.  And  while  both 
ccounts  say  how  the  saved  nations  rendered  thanks  to  the 
father  in  heaven,  we  are  told  that  the  heathen  placed,  beside 
lis  altar,  altars  to  the  Maiden  Wisdom  and  to  Hermes,  while 
he  Christians  placed  altars  dedicated  to  the  Maiden  Mother 
nd  to  George.  Even  Medusa's  head  did  not  come  amiss  to 
be  mediaeval  artist,  but  set  in  the  saint's  hand  became  his 
iwn,  fit  indication  of  the  death  by  which  he  should  afterwards 
;lorify  God.  And  here  we  may  probably  trace  the  original 
rror — if,  indeed,  to  be  called  an  error — by  which  the  myth 
oncerning  Perseus  was  introduced  into  the  story  of  our  sol- 
lier-saint  of  the  East.  From  the  fifth  century  to  the  fifteenth, 
nythologists  nearly  all  give,  and  usually  with  approval,  an  in- 
erpretation  of  the  word  "  gorgon  "  which  makes  it  identical 
n  meaning  and  derivation  with  "  George."  When  compara- 
ively  learned  persons,  taught  too  in  this  special  subject,  ac- 
iepted  such  an  opinion  and  insisted  upon  it,  we  cannot  be 
lurprised  if  their  contemporaries,  uneducated,  or  educated 
)nly  in  the  Christian  mysteries,  took  readily  a  similar  view, 
jspecially  when  we  consider  the  wild  confusion  in  medijx^val 
ninds  coiicerning  the  spelling  of  classical  names.  Now  just 
LS  into  the  legend  of  St,  Hippolytus  there  was  introduced  a 
ong  episode  manifestly  derived  from  some  disarranged  and 
nisunderstood  series  of   paintings  or  sculptures  concerning 


;  A/iz/itr  ui\jO. 


the  fate  of  the  Greek  Hippolytus, — and  this  is  by  no  means  a 
singular  example,  the  name  inscribed  on  the  work  of  art  being 
taken  as  evidence  that  it  referred  to  the  only  bearer  of  that 
name  then  thought  of — so,  in  all  probability,  it  came  about 
with  St.  George.  People  at  Lydda  far  on  into  Christian  times 
would  know  vaguely,  and  continue  to  tell  the  story,  how  long 
ago  under  that  familiar  clitf  the  dragon  was  slain  and  the  royal 
maid  released.  Then  some  ruined  fresco  or  vase  painting  of 
the  event  would  exist,  half  forgotten,  with  the  names  of  the 
characters  written  after  Greek  f:ishion  near  them  in  the  usual 
superbly  errant  caligraphy.  The  Gorgon's  name  could  scarcely 
fail  to  be  prominent  in  a  series  of  pictures  from  Perseus's  his- 
tory, or  in  this  scene  as  an  explanation  of  the  head  in  his  hand. 
A  Christian  pilgrim,  or  hermit,  his  heart  full  of  the  great 
saint,  whose  name  as  **  TriumiDhant "  filled  the  East,  would, 
when  he  had  spelt  out  the  lettering,  at  once  exclaim,  "  Ah, 
here  is  recorded  another  of  my  patron's  victories."  The  prob- 
ability of  this  is  enhanced  by  the  appearance  in  St.  George's 
story  of  names  whose  introduction  seems  to  require  a  similar 
explanation.  But  we  shall  find  that  the  battle  wdth  the  dragon, 
though  not  reckoned  among  St.  George's  deeds  before  the 
eleventh  or  twelfth  century,  is  entirely  appropriate  to  the 
earliest  sources  of  his  legend. 

One  other  important  parallel  between  Perseus  and  St. 
George  deserves  notice,  though  it  docs  not  beal*  directly  upon 
these  pictures.  Both  are  distinguished  by  their  burnished 
shields.  The  hero's  was  given  him  by  Athena,  that,  watching 
in  it  the  reflected  figure  of  the  Gorgon,'  he  might  strike  rightly 
with  his  sickle-sword,  nor  need  to  meet  in  face  the  mortal 
horror  of  her  look.  The  saint's  bright  shield  rallied  once  and 
again  a  breaking  host  of  crusaders,  as  they  seemed  to  see  it 
blaze  in  their  van  under  Antioch  "  wall,  and  by  the  breaches 
of  desecrated  Zion.  But  his  was  a  magic  mirror ;  work  of 
craftsmen  more  cunning  than  might  obey  the  Queen  of  Air. 
Turned  to  visions  of  terror  and  death,  it  threw  back  by  law 

'  The  allegorising  Platoiiists  interpret  Medusa  as  a  symbol  of  man's 
sensual  nature.     This  we  shall  find  to  be  Car2)accio's  view  of  the  dragon 
•  -  Actbxi.  2G. 


6  2 HE  PLAGE   OF  DRAGONS. 

diviner  optics  an  altered  image — the  crimson  blazon  of  its 
OSS.  ^  So  much  for  the  growth  ©f  the  dragon  legend,  f rag- 
3nt  of  a  most  ancient  faith,  widely  spread  and  variously 
3alised,  thus  made  human  by  Greek,  and  passionately  sjDir- 
lal  by  Christian  art. 

We  shall  see  later  that  Perseus  is  not  St.  George's  only 
ood-relation  among  the  powers  of  earlier  belief  ;  but  for 
igiishmen  there  may  be  a  linked  association,  if  more  difficult 
trace  through  historic  descent,  yet,  in  its  perfect  harmony, 
en  more  pleasantly  strange.  The  great  heroic  poem  which 
mains  to  us  in  the  tongue  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors — 
tuitive  creation  and  honourable  treasure  for  ever  of  simple 
iglish  minds — tells  of  a  warrior  whose  names,  like  St. 
gorge's,  are  "  Husbandman  "  and  "  Glorious,"  whose  crown- 
5*  deed  was  done  in  battle  with  the  poisonous  drake.  Even 
igure  very  important  in  St.  George's  history — one  we  shall 
3et  in  the  third  of  these  pictures — is  in  this  legend  not  with- 
t  its  representative — that  young  kinsman  of  the  Saxon  hero, 
imong  the  faithless"  earls  "faithful  only  he,"  who  holds 
fore  the  failing  eyes  of  his  lord  the  long  rusted  helm  and 
Iden  standard,  "  wondrous  in  the  grasp,"  and  mystic  ves- 
Is  of  ancient  time,  treasure  redeemed  at  last  by  a  brave  man's 
3od  from  the  vaulted  cavern  of  the  "  Twilight  Flyer."  For 
jowulf  indeed  slays  the  monster,  bat  wins  no  princess,  and 
3S  of  the  tier}"  venom  that  has  scorched  his  limbs  in  the  con- 
st. Him  there  awaited  such  fires  alone — seen  from  their 
3ak  promontory  afar  over  northern  ssas — as  burned  once 
►on  the  ridge  of  CEta,  his  the  Heraklean  crown  of  poplar 
ives  only,  blackened  without  by  the  smoke  of  hell,  and 
the  inner  side  washed  white  with  the  sweat  of  a  labour- 
's brow.^     It  is  a  wilder  form  of  the  great  story  told  by 

'  Compare  the  strange  reappearance  of  tlie  ^ginetan  Athena  as  St. 
Im  on  the  Florin.  There  the  arm  that  bore  the  shield  now  with 
inted  finger  gives  emphasis  and  direction  to  the  word  "  Behold." 
■  There  was  in  his  People's  long  lament  for  Beowulf  one  word  about 
3  hidden  future,  "  when  he  must  go  forth  from  the  body  to  become 
.  .  "  What  to  become  we  shall  not  know,  for  fate  has  struck  out 
it  the  four  letter  that  would  have  told  us. 


TIW  PLACE   OF  DRAGONS.  l'>7 

seers  '  wlio  knew  only  the  terror  of  nature  and  the  daily  toil 
of  men,  and  the  doom  that  is  over  these  for  each  of  us.  The 
royal  maiden  for  ever  set  free,  the  sprinkling  of  pure  water 
unto  eternal  life, — this  only  such  eyes  may  discern  as  by  hap- 
pier fate  have  also  rested  upon  tables  whose  divine  blazon  is 
the  law  of  heaven ;  such  hearts  alone  conceive,  as,  trained  in 
some  holy  city  of  God,  have  among  the  spirits  of  just  men 
made  perfect,  learned  to  love  His  commandment. 

Such,  then,  was  the  venerable  belief  which  Carpaccio  set 
himself  to  picture  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  George.  How  far  he 
knew  its  wide  reign  and  ancient  descent,  or  how  far,  without 
recognising  these,  he  intuitively  acted  as  the  knowledge  would 
have  led  him,  and  was  conscious  of  lighting  up  his  work  by 
Gentile  learning  and  symbolism,  must  to  us  be  doubtful  It 
is  not  doubtful  that,  whether  with  open  ej^es,  or  in  simple 
obedience  to  the  traditions  of  his  training,  or,  as  is  most 
likely,  loyal  as  well  in  wisdom  as  in  humility,  he  did  so  il- 
lumine it,  and  very  gloriously.  But  painting  this  glory,  he 
paints  with  it  the  peace  that  over  the  king-threatened  cradle 
of  another  Prince  than  Perseus,  was  proclaimed  to  the  heavy- 
laden. 

The  first  picture  on  the  left  hand  as  we  enter  the  chapel 
shows  St.  George  on  horseback,  in  battle  with  the  Dragon. 
Other  artists,  even  Tintoret,^  are  of  opinion  that  the  Saint 
rode  a  white  horse.  The  champion  of  Purity  must,  tho} 
hold,  have  been  carried  to  victory  by  a  charger  ethereal  aiul 

'  **  Beowulf  "  was  probably  composed  by  a  poet  nearly  contemporar  v 
with  Bede.     The  dragon  victory  was  not  yet  added  to  the  glories  of  St 
George.   Indeed,  Pope  Gelasius,  in  Council,  more  than  a  couple  of  cen- 
turies before,  had  declared  him  to  be  one  of  those  saints  '*  whose  nani<  s 
are  justly  revered  among  men,  but  whose  deeds  are  known  to  God  only. 
Accordingly  the  Saxon  teacher  invokes  him  somewhat  vaguely  thus  :—■ 

*'  Invicto  mundum  qui  sanguine  temnis 
Infinita  refers.  Georgi  Sancte,  trophrea  !  " 

Yet  even  in  these  words  we  see  a  reverence  similar  to  Carpaccio's  f^r 
St.  George  as  patron  of  purity.     And  the  deeds  "  known  to  God  alone 
were  in  His  good  time  revealed  to  those  to  whom  it  pleased  Hint. 
-In  the  ante-chapel  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 


idb  TUE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS, 

splendid  as  a  summer  cloud.  Carpaccio  believed  that  his 
horse  was  a  dark  brown.  He  knew  that  this  colour  is  gener- 
ally the  mark  of  greatest  strength  and  endurance  ;  he  had  no 
wish  to  paint  here  an  ascetic's  victory  over  the  flesh.  St. 
Greorge's  warring  is  in  the  world,  and  for  it ;  he  is  the  enemy 
of  its  desolation,  the  guardian  of  its  peace  ;  and  all  ^ital  force 
of  the  lower  Natui-e  he  shall  have  to  bear  him  into  battle ; 
submissive  indeed  to  the  spui%  bitted  and  bridled  for  obedi- 
ence, yet  honourably  decked  with  tmppings  whose  studs  and 
bosses  are  fair  carven  faces.  But  though  of  colour  prosaically 
useful,  this  horse  has  a  deeper  kinship  with  the  air.  Many  of 
the  ancient  histories  and  vase-paintings  tell  us  tliat  Perseus, 
tvhen  he  saved  Andromeda,  was  mounted  on  Pegasus.  Look 
now  here  at  the  mane  and  tail,  swept  still  back  upon  the 
i.vind,  though  ah-eady  the  passionate  onset  has  been  brought 
to  sudden  pause  in  that  crash  of  encounter.  Though  the  flash 
of  an  earthly  fire  be  in  his  eye,  its  force  in  his  hmbs — though 
the  clothing  of  his  neck  be  Chthonian  thunder — this  steed  is 
brother,  too,  to  that  one,  born  by  farthest  ocean  wells,  whose 
wild  mane  and  sweeping  wings  stretch  through  the  firmament 
is  light  is  breaking  over  earth.  More  ;  these  masses  of  bil- 
lowy hair  tossed  upon  the  breeze  of  heaven  are  set  here  for  a 
5ign  that  this,  though  but  one  of  the  beasts  that  perish,  has 
the  roots  of  his  strong  nature  in  the  power  of  heavenly  life, 
ind  is  now  about  His  business  who  is  Lord  of  heaven  and 
Father  of  men.  The  horse  is  thus,  as  we  shall  see,  opposed 
to  certain  other  signs,  meant  for  our  learning,  in  the  dream 
:)f  horror  round  this  monster's  den.' 

St.  George,  armed  to  his  throat,  sits  firmly  in  the  saddle. 
A.11  the  skill  gained  in  a  chivalric  youth,  all  the  might  of  a  sol- 
dier's manhood,  he  summons  for  this  strange  tourney,  stooping 
slightly  and  gatheiing  his  strength  as  he  drives  the  spear- 
point  straight  between  his  enemy's  jaws.  His  face  is  very  fair, 
at  once  dehcate  and  powerful,  well-bred  in  the  fullest  bear- 

'  This  cloudlike  effect  is  through  surface  rubbing  perhaps  mow 
marked  now  than  Carpaccio  intended,  but  must  always  have  been  most 
noticeable.  It  produces  a  very  striking  resemblance  to  the  Pegasus  or 
the  Ham  of  Phrixus  on  Greek  vases. 


rilE  PLACE  OF  DRAaONP. 


yw 


ing*  of  the  words  ;  a  Plantagenet  face  in  general  type,  but  much 
retiiied.  Tiie  lower  lip  is  pressed  upwards,  the  brow  knit,  in 
anger  and  disgust  partly,  but  more  in  care — and  care  not  so 

iiuch  concerning  the  fight's  ending,  as  that  this  thrust  in  it 

liall  now  be  rightly  dealt.  His  hair  llow^s  in  briglit  golden  rip- 
,  los,  strong  as  those  of  a  great  S2)rii]g  whose  ui^-welHng  waters 

ircle  through  some  clear  pool,  but  it  breaks  at  last  to  float 
over  brow  and  shoulders  in  tendrils  of  living  light/  Had  Car- 
}):iccio  been  aware  that  St.  George  and  Perseus  are,  in  this 
deed,  one  ;  had  he  even  held,  as  surely  as  Professor  Miiller 
finds  reason  to  do,  that  at  first  Perseus  was  but  the  sun  in  his 
strength — for  very  name,  being  called  the  "Brightly-Burn- 
ing " — this  glorious  head  could  not  have  been,  more  completely 
than  it  is,  made  the  centre  of  light  in  the  picture.  In  Greek 
w  orks  of  art,  as  a  rule,  Perseus,  when  he  rescues  Andromeda, 
continues  to  wear  the  peaked  Phrygian  cap,  dark  helmet  of 
Hades,  ^  by  whose  virtue  he  moved,  invisible,  upon  Medusa 
through  coiling  mists  of  dawn.  Only  after  victory  might  he 
unveil  his  brightness.     But  about  George  from  the  first  is  no 

liadow.  Creeping  thing  of  keenest  eye  shall  not  see  that 
splendour  which  is  so  manifest,  nor  with  guile  spring  upon  it 
unaware,  to  its  darkening.  Such  knowledge  alone  for  the 
dragon — dim  sense  as  of  a  horse  with  its  rider,  moving  to  the 
fatal  lair,  hope,  pulseless, — not  of  heart,  but  of  talon  and  maw 
— that  here  is  yet  another  victim,  then  only  between  his  teeth 
that  keen  lance-point,  thrust  far  before  the  Holy  A2:)parition 
at  whose  rising  the  Power  of  the  Vision  of  Death  waxes  faint 
and  drops  those  terrible  wings  that  bore  under  their  shadow, 
not  healing,  but  wounds  for  men. 

The  spear  pierces  the  base  of  the  dragon's  brain,  its  point 
l)cnetrating  right  through  and  standing  out  at  the  back  of  the 
lioad  just  above  its  junction  with  the  spine.    The  shaft  brealcs 

1  the  shock  between  the  dragon's  jaws.  This  shivering  of  St. 
( reorge's  spear  is  almost  alw\ays  emphasized  in  pictures  of  him 
— sometimes,  as  here,  in  act,  oftener  by  position  of  the  si^liu- 
ujred  fragments  prominent  in  the  foregi'ound.     This  is  no  ti.i- 

'  At  his  martyrdom  St.  Georcre  was  hung  up  by  his  hair  to  be  scourged. 
*  Giveu  by  Hermes  (Chthoiiios). 


dition  of  ancient  art,  but  a  pur  el}'  mediseval  incident,  yet  not, 
I  believe,  merely  the  vacant  reproduction  of  a  sight  become 
familiar  to  the  spectator  of  tournaments.  The  spear  was  type 
of  the  strength  of  human  wisdom.  This  checks  the  enemy  in 
his  attack,  subdues  him  partly,  yet  is  shattered,  having  done 
so  much,  and  of  no  help  in  perfecting  the  victory  or  in  reap- 
ing its  reward  of  joy.  But  at  the  Saint's  "  loins,  girt  about 
with  truth,"  there  hangs  his  holier  weapon — the  Sword  of  the 
Spirit,  which  is  the  Word  of  God. 

The  Dragon^  is  bearded  like  a  goat,*^  and  essentially  a 
thorny  ^  creature.  Every  ridge  of  his  body,  wings,  and  head, 
bristles  with  long  spines,  keen,  sword-like,  of  an  earthy  brown 
colour  or  poisonous  green.  But  the  most  truculent-looking 
of  all  is  a  short,  strong,  hooked  one  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
close  to  where  the  spear-point  protrudes."  These  thorns  are 
partly  the  same  vision — though  seen  with  even  clearer  eyes, 
dreamed  by  a  heart  yet  more  tender — as  Spenser  saw  in  the 
troop  of  urchins  coming  up  with  the  host  of  other  lusts 
against  the  Castle  of  Temperance.  They  are  also  symbolic 
as  weeds  whose  deadly  growth  brings  the  power  of  earth  to 
waste  and  chokes  its  good.  These  our  Lord  of  spiritual  hus- 
bandmen must  for  preliminary  task  destroy.  The  agricult- 
ural process  consequent  on  this  first  step  in  tillage  we  shall 
see  in  the  next  picture,  whose  subject  is  the  triumph  of  the 
ploughshare  sword,  as  the  subject  of  this  one  is  the  triumpli 
of  the  pruning-hook  spear."  To  an  Itahan  of  Carpaccio's 
time,  further,  spines — etymologically  connected  in  Greek  and 

^  It  should  be  noticed  that  St.  George's  dragon  is  never  human-headed, 
as  often  St.  Michael's. 

-  So  the  Theban  dragon  on  a  vase,  to  be  afterwards  referred  to. 

^  The  following  are  Lucians  words  concerning  the  monster  slain  by 
Ferseus,  "Kai  rb  fjiei/  eireiai  trecppiKhs  rals  &Kau6ais  Kal  dedirrS/Jievoi/  tm 
Xda/xari. ' ' 

*  1  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  this  here.  It  bears  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  the  crests  of  the  dragon  of  Triptolemus  on  vases.  These  crests 
signify  primarily  the  springing  blade  of  corn.  That,  here,  has  become 
like  iron. 

^  For  "  pruning-hooks  "  in  our  version,  the  Vulgate  reads  *Migones  ' 
—  tools  for  preparatory  clearance. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS.  Ill 

Latin,  as  in  English,  with  the  backbone — were  an  acknowl- 
edged symbol  of  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  whose  defeat  the  artist 
has  here  set  himself  to  paint.  The  mighty  coiling  tail,  as  of 
a  giant  eel,'  carries  out  the  portraiture.  For  this,  loathsomr 
as  the  body  is  full  of  horror,  takes  the  place  of  the  snails 
ranked  by  Spenser  in  line  beside  his  urchins.  Though  the 
monster,  half-rampant,  rises  into  air,  turning  claw  and  spikn 
and  tooth  towards  St.  George,  we  are  taught  by  this  grey 
abomination  twisting  in  the  slime  of  death  that  the  threatened 
destruction  is  to  be  dreaded  not  more  for  its  horror  than  for 
its  shame. 

Behind  the  dragon  he,  naked,  with  dead  faces  turned 
heavenwards,  two  corpses — a  youth's  and  a  girls,  eaten  away 
from  the  feet  to  the  middle,  the  flesh  hanging  at  the  waist  in 
loathsome  rags  torn  by  the  monster's  teeth.  The  man's  thigh 
and  upper-arm  bones  snapped  across  and  sucked  empty  of 
marrow,  are  turned  to  us  for  special  sign  of  this  destroyer's 
power.  The  face,  foreshortened,  is  drawn  by  death  and  deca} 
into  the  ghastly  likeness  of  an  ape's. '^  The  girl's  face — seen 
in  profile — is  quiet  and  still  beautiful  ;  her  long  hair  is  heaped 
as  for  a  pillow  under  her  head.  It  does  not  grow  like  St. 
George's,  in  living  ripples,  but  Kes  in  fantastic  folds,  that  have 
about  them  a  savour,  not  of  death  only,  but  of  corruption. 
For  all  its  pale  gold  they  at  once  carry  back  one's  mind  to 
Turner's  Pytho,  where  the  arrow  of  Apollo  strikes  him  in  the 
midst,  and,  piercing,  reveals  his  foulness.  Round  her  throat 
cling  a  few  torn  rags,  these  only  remaining  of  the  white  gar- 

'  Tlie  eel  was  Venus'  selected  beast-shape  in  the  '*  Flight  of  the  Gods." 
Boccaccio  has  enhirged  upon  the  signilicance  of  this.  Gen.  Deor.  IV.  68. 
One  learns  from  other  sources  that  a  tail  was  often  symbol  of  sensuality. 

•  In  the  great  Botticelli  of  the  National  Gallery,  known  as  Mars  and 
Venus,  but  almost  identical  with  the  picture  drawn  afterwards  by  Spen- 
ser of  the  Bower  of  Acrasia,  the  sleeping  youth  wears  an  expression, 
though  less  strongly  marked,  very  similar  to  that  of  this  dead  face  her«>. 
Such  brutish  paralysis  is  with  scientific  accuracy  made  special  to  tli 
male.  It  may  be  noticed  that  the  power  of  venomously  wounding,  ex 
pressed  by  Carpaccio  through  the  dragon's  spines,  is  in  the  Botticelli 
signified  by  the  swarm  of  hornets  issuing  from  the  tree  trunk  by  the 
young  mans  head. 


142  TUE  PLAGE  OF  DRAGONS. 

ment  tliat  clotlied  lier  once.  Carpaccio  was  a  diligent  student 
of  ancient  mythology.  Boccaccio's  very  learned  book  on  the 
Gods  was  the  standard  classical  dictionar}^  of  those  days  in 
Italy.  It  tells  us  how  the  Cyprian  Venus — a  mortal  princess 
in  reality,  Boccaccio  holds — to  cover  her  own  disgrace  led  the 
maidens  of  her  country  to  the  sea-sands,  and,  stripping  them 
there,  tempted  them  to  follow  her  in  shame.  I  suspect  Car- 
paccio had  this  story  in  his  mind,  and  meant  here  to  reveal  in 
true  dragon  aspect  the  Venus  that  once  seemed  fair,  to  show 
by  this  shore  the  fate  of  them  that  follow  her.  It  is  to  be  no- 
ticed that  the  dead  man  is  an  addition  made  by  Carpaccio  to 
the  old  story.  Maidens  of  the  people,  the  legend-writers 
knew,  had  been  sacrificed  before  the  Princess  ;  but  only  he, 
filling  the  tale — like  a  cup  of  his  country's  fairly  fashioned 
glass — full  of  the  wine  of  profitable  teaching,  is  aware  that 
men  have  often  come  to  these  yellow  sands  to  join  there  in 
the  dance  of  death — not  only,  nor  once  for  all,  this  Saint  who 
clasped  hands  with  Victory.  Two  ships  in  the  distance — one 
stranded,  with  rigging  rent  or  fallen,  the  other  moving  pros- 
perously with  full  sails  on  its  course — symbolically  repeat  this 
thought. ' 

Frogs  clamber  about  the  corpse  of  the  man,  lizards  about 
the  woman.  Indeed  for  shells  and  creeping  things  this  place 
where  strangers  lie  slain  and  unburied  w^ould  have  been  to 
the  good  Palissy  a  veritable  and  valued  potter's  field.  But  to 
every  one  of  these  cold  and  scaly  creatures  a  special  symbol- 
ism was  attached  by  the  science — not  unwisely  dreaming — 
of  Carpaccio's  day.  They  are,  each  one,  painted  here  to  am- 
plify and  press  home  the  picture's  teaching.  These  lizards 
are  born  of  a  dead  man's  flesh,  these  snakes  of  his  marrow  :  ^ 
and  adders,  the  most  venomous,  are  still  only  lizards  ripened 
witheringly  from  loathsome  flower  into  poisonous  fruit.  The 
frogs  ^ — symbols,  Pierius  tells  us,  of  imperfection  and  sliame- 

^  *•  Tlie  many  fail,  the  one  succeeds." 

^  "The  silver  cord  "  not  "loosed  "  in  God's  peace,  but  thus  devilishly 
quickened. 

^  Compare  the  "  unclean  spirits  come  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  dragon," 
in  Revelation. 


77/yv  rLAUrJ   uv    ifiiAUUiy.^.  ±-±0 

lossness — aro  in  transiigurecl  form  tlioso  Lycian  husl^andnien 
\vhose  foul  words  niockecl  Latona,  whose  feet  defiled  the  wells 
of  water  she  thirsted  for,  as  the  veiled  mother  painfully  jour- 
neyed with  those  two  babes  on  her  arm,  of  whom  one  should 
1)6  Queen  of  Maidenhood,  the  other,  Lord  of  Light,  and 
Guardian  of  the  Ways  of  Men  J  This  subtle  association  be- 
tween batrachians  and  love  declining  to  sense  lay  very  deep 
in  the  Italian  mind.  In  '*  Ariadne  Florentina  "  there  are  two 
engravings  from  Botticelli  of  Venus,  as  a  star  floating  through 
heaven  and  as  foam-born  rising  from  the  sea.  Both  pictures 
are  most  subtly  beautiful,  yet  in  the  former  the  lizard  like- 
ness shows  itself  distinctly  in  the  face,  and  a  lizard's  tail  ap- 
pears in  manifest  form  as  pendulous  crest  of  the  chariot,  w^hile 
in  the  latter  not  only  contours  of  profile  and  back,*  but  the 
selected  attitude  of  the  goddess,  bent  and  half  emergent,  with 
hand  resting  not  over  firmly  upon  the  level  shore,  irresistibly 
recall  a  frog. 

In  the  foreground,  between  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  a 
spotted  lizard  labours  at  the  task  set  Sisyphus  in  hell  for  ever. 
Sisyphus,  the  cold-hearted  and  shifty  son  of  iEolus,^  stained 
in  life  by  nameless  lust,  received  his  mocking  doom  of  toil, 
partly  for  his  treachery — winning  this  only  in  the  end, — 
partly  because  he  opposed  the  divine  conception  of  the  -^acid 
race ;  but  above  all,  as  penalty  for  the  attempt  to  elude  the 
fate  of  death  "  that  is  appointed  alike  for  all,"  by  refusal  for 
his  own  body  of  that  ''  sowing  in  corruption,"  against  which 
a  deeper  furrow  is  prepared  by  the  last  of  husbandmen  with 
whose  labour  each  of  us  has  on  earth  to  do.  Then,  finding 
that  Cai-paccio  has  had  in  his  mind  one  scene  of  Tartarus,  wi 
may  believe  the  corpse  in  the  background,  torn  by  carrion- 
birds,  to  be  not  merely  a  meaningless  incident  of  horror,  but 
a  reminiscence  of  enduring  punishment  avenging  upon  Tity- 
us  *  the  insulted  puiity  of  Artemis.* 

'  Compare  the  account  of  the  Frog's  hump,  "Ariadne  Florentina,"  p. 93. 
^Compare  Pindars  use  of  aX6\os  as  a  fit  adjective  for  t//€C8os,Xeiii.  \  iii.  J-'). 
*  ''Terra?  oniniparentis  aliiTnnum." 

^  Or,  as  tlie  story  is  otlierwise  given,  of  the  mother  of  Ar;  u 

the  case  of  the  Lyciau  peasants  above. 


1^4:  THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 

The  coiled  adder  is  the  familiar  symbol  of  eternity,  hero 
meant  either  to  seal  for  the  defeated  their  fate  as  final,  or  to 
hint,  with  something  of  Turner's  sadness,  that  this  is  a  battle 
not  gained  "  once  for  ever"  and  "for  all,"  but  to  be  fought 
anew  by  every  son  of  man,  while,  for  each,  defeat  shall  be 
deadly,  and  victory  still  most  hard,  though  an  armed  Angel  of 
the  Victory  of  God  be  our  marshal  and  leader  in  the  contest. 
A  further  comparison  with  Turner  is  suggested  by  the  horse's 
skull  between  us  and  Saint  George.  A  similar  skeleton  is 
prominent  in  the  corresponding  part  of  the  foreground  in  the 
**  Jason  "  of  the  Liber  Studiorum.  But  Jason  clambers  to 
victory  on  foot,  allows  no  charger  to  bear  him  in  the  fight. 
Turner,  more  an  antique  ^  Hellene  than  a  Christian  prophet, 
had,  as  all  the  greatest  among  the  Greeks,  neither  vision  nor 
hope  of  any  more  perfect  union  between  lower  and  higher 
nature  by  which  that  inferior  creation,  groaning  now  with  us 
in  pain,  should  cease  to  be  type  of  the  mortal  element,  which 
seems  to  shame  our  soul  as  basing  it  in  clay,  and,  w^ith  that 
element,  become  a  temple-platform,  lifting  man's  life  towards 
heaven.^ 

With  Turner's  adder,  too,  springing  immortal  from  the  Py- 
thon's wound,  we  cannot  but  connect  this  other  adder  of  Car- 
paccio's,  issuing  from  the  white  skull  of  a  great  snake.  Adders, 
according  to  an  old  fancy,  were  born  from  the  jaws  of  their 
living  mother.  Supernatural  horror  attaches  to  this  symbolic 
one,  writhing  out  from  between  the  teeth  of  that  ophidian 
death's-head.  And  the  plague,  not  yet  fully  come  forth,  but 
already  about  its  father's  business,  venomously  fastens  on  a 
frog,  type  of  the  sinner  whose  degradation  is  but  the  begin- 
ning of  punishment.     So  soon  the  worm  that  dies  not  is  also 

1  Hamlet,  V.  ii.  352. 

^  Pegasus  and  the  immortal  liorses  of  Achilles,  born  like  Pegasus  by 
the  ocean  wells,  are  always  to  be  recognized  as  spiritual  creatures,  not — 
as  St.  George's  horse  here  -  earthly  creatures,  though  serving  and  mani- 
festing divine  power.  Compare  too  the  fate  of  Argus  (Homer,  Od. 
XVIL)  In  the  great  Greek  philosophies,  similarly,  we  find  a  realm  of 
formless  shadow  eternally  unconquered  by  sacred  order,  offering  a  con- 
trast to  the  modern  systems  which  aim  at  a  unity  to  be  reached,  if  not 
by  reason,  at  least  by  what  one  may  not  inaccurately  call  an  act  of  faith. 


1  u i\    1  j..ii  I.     •  i^iuuiytD. 


upon  him — in  its  fang  Circean  poison  to  make  the  victim  one 
^Yith  his  plague,  as  in  that  terrible  circle  those,  afflicted,  whom 

\  ita  bestial  piacque  e  non  humana." 

Two  spiral  shells '  lie  on  the  sand,  in  shape  related  to  each 
other  as  frog  to  lizard,  or  as  Spenser's  urchins,  spoken  of 
above,  to  his  snails.  One  is  round  and  short,  with  smooth 
viscous-looking  lip,  turned  over,  and  lying  towards  the  sj)ec- 
tator.  The  other  is  finer  in  form,  and  of  a  kind  noticeable 
for  its  rows  of  deUcate  spines.  But,  since  the  dweller  in  this 
one  died,  the  weaves  of  many  a  long-fallen  tide  rolling  on  the 
shingle  have  worn  j^i almost  smooth,  as  you  may  see  its  fel- 
lows to-day  by  hundreds  along  Lido  shore.  Now  such  shells 
were,  through  heathen  ages  innumerable  and  over  many 
lands,  holy  things,  because  of  their  whorls  moving  from  left 
to  right''  in  some  mysterious  sympathy,  it  seemed,  with  the 
sun  in  his  daily  course  through  heaven.  Then  as  the  open 
clam-shell  w^as  special  symbol  of  Yen  us,  so  these  became  of 
the  Syrian  Venus,  Ashtaroth,  Ej^hesian  Artemis,  queen,  not  of 
purity  but  of  abundance,  Mylitta,  t]tl<s  ttot  cVtiv,  the  many 
named  and  widely  worshipped.^  In  Syrian  figures  still  ex- 
isting she  bears  just  such  a  shell  in  her  hand.  Later  writers, 
with  whom  the  source  of  this  symbolism  w\as  forgotten, 
accounted  for  it,  partly  by  imaginative  instinct,  partly  by 
fanciful  invention  concerning  the  nature  and  way  of  Hfe  of 
these  creatures.  But  there  is  here  yet  a  further  reference, 
since  from  such  shells  along  the  Syrian  coast  was  crushed  out, 
sea-pur^^le  and  scai'let,  the  juice  of  the  Tyrian  dye.  And  the 
power  of  sensual  delight  throned  in  the  chief  places  of  each 
merchant  city,  decked  her  "stately  bed"  with  coverings 
whose  tincture  was  the  stain  of  that  baptism.*    The  shells  are 

'  Ovid  associates  shells  with  the  enemy  of  Andromeda,  but  regarding 
it  as  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like  monster,  plants  them  on  its  back — 
"terRa  cavis  super  obsita  conchis."— Ou.  Met.,  IV.  724. 
In  India,  for  the  same  reason,  one  of  the  leading  marks  of  the  Bud- 
dha's perfection  was  liis  hair,  thus  spiral. 

^Compare  the  curious  tale  about  the  Echeneis.  Pliny,  Ilist.  Nat., 
IX.  25.      "  De  echeneide  ej usque  naturd  mirabili." 

^  The  purple  of  Lydda  was  famous.     Compare  Fors  Clavigera,  April, 
1876,  p.  2.  and  Deucalion,  g  39. 
10 


146  THE  PLACE  OF  DRA  G  ONS. 

empty  now,  devoured — lizards  on  land  or  sea-sliore  are  ever 
to  sucli  "  inimicissimum  genus "  ^ — or  wasted  in  the  deej). 
For  the  ripples  '^  that  have  thrown  and  left  them  on  the  sand 
are  a  type  of  the  lusts  of  men,  that  leap  up  from  the  abyss, 
surge  over  the  shore  of  life,  and  fall  in  swift  ebb,  leaving 
desolation  behind. 

Near  the  coiled  adder  is  planted  a  withered  human  head. 
The  sinews  and  skin  of  the  neck  spread,  and  clasp  the 
ground — as  a  zoophyte  does  its  rock — in  hideous  mimicry  of 
an  old  tree's  knotted  roots.  Two  feet  and  legs,  torn  off  by 
the  knee,  lean  on  this  head,  one  again^fe  the  brow  and  the 
other  behind.  The  scalp  is  bare  and  withered.  These  things 
catch  one's  eye  on  the  first  glance  at  the  picture,  and  though 
so  painful  are  made  thus  prominent  as  giving  the  key  to  a 
large  part  of  its  symbolism.  Later  Platonists — and  among 
them  those  of  the  fifteenth  century — developed  from  certain 
texts  in  the  Timaeus  ^  a  doctrine  concerning  the  mystical 
meaning  of  hair,  which  coincides  with  its  significance  to  the 
vision  of  early  (pre-Platonic)  Greeks.  As  a  tree  has  its  roots 
in  earth,  and  set  thus,  must  patiently  abide,  bearing  such 
fruit  as  the  laws  of  nature  may  appoint,  so  man,  being  of 
other  family — these  dreamers  belonged  to  a  very  "pre-scien- 
tific  epoch  " — has  his  roots  in  heaven,  and  has  the  power  of 
moving  to  and  fro  over  the  earth  for  service  to  the  Law  of 
Heaven,  and  as  sign  of  his  free  descent.  Of  these  diviner 
roots  the  hair  is  visible  type.  Plato  tells  us,^  that  of  innocent, 
light-hearted  men,  ''whose  thoughts  were  turned  heaven- 
ward," but  who  "imagined  in  their  simplicity  that  the  clearest 
demonstration  of  things  above  was  to  be  obtained  by  sight " 
the  race  of  birds  had  being,  by  change  of  external  shape 
into  due  harmony  with  the  soul  ("/xercppv^/At^ero ") — such 
persons   growing   feathers   instead   of    hair.''     We    have    in 

1  Pliny,  Hist.  Nat.,  VIII.  89. 

-  Under  tlie  name  of  Salacia  and  Venilia.  See  St.  August  ,  Civ.  Dei, 
VII.  22. 

:^  Plato,  Tim.,  75,  76.  '  iHd.  91,  D.  B. 

^  The  most  devoid  of  wisdom  were  stretched  on  eartli,  becom'u-!:  io(-t- 
less  and  creeping  things,  or  sunk  as  lisli  in  tlie  sea.     So,  wo  saw  \'cmi's' 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS.  147 

Dante, '  too,  an  inversion  of  tree  nature  parallel  to  that  of  the 
lioad  here.  The  tree,  with  roots  in  air,  whose  sweet  fruit  is, 
in  Purgatory,  alternately,  to  gluttonous  souls,  temptation,  and 
purifying  punishment — watered,  Landino  interprets,  by  the 
descending  spray  of  Lethe — signifies  that  these  souls  have 
forgotten  the  source  and  limits  of  earthly  pleasure,  seeking 
vainly  in  it  satisfaction  for  the  hungry  and  immortal  spirit. 
80  here,  this  blackened  head  of  the  sensual  sinner  is  rooted  to 
earth,  the  sign  of  strength  drawn  from  above  is  stripped  from 
off  it,  and  beside  it  on  the  sand  are  laid,  as  in  hideous  mock- 
ery, the  feet  that  might  have  been  beautiful  u^Don  the  moun- 
tains. Think  of  the  woman's  body  beyond,  and  then  of  this 
head — "instead  of  a  girdle,  a  rent;  and  instead  of  well-set 
]iair,  baldness."  The  worm's  brethren,  the  Dragon's  elect, 
wear  such  shameful  tonsure,  unencircled  by  the  symbolic 
crown  ;  prodigal  of  life,  *'risurgeranno,"  from  no  quiet  grave, 
l)ut  from  this  haunt  of  horror,  **co  crin  mozzi"  ' — in  piteous 
witness  of  wealth  ruinously  cast  away.  Then  compare,  in 
light  of  the  quotation  from  Plato  above,  the  dragon's  thorny 
plumage  ;  compare,  too,  tlie  charger's  mane  and  tail,  and  the 
rippling  glory  that  crowns  St.  George.  It  is  worth  while,  too, 
to  have  in  mind  the  words  of  the  ** black  cherub"  that  had 
overheard  the  treacherous  counsel  of  Guido  de  Montefeltro. 
From  the  moment  it  was  uttered,  to  that  of  the  sinner's 
death,  the  evil  spirit  says,  "stato  gli  sono  a  crini"  ^ — lord  of 
his  fate.  Further,  in  a  Venetian  series  of  engravings  illus- 
trating Dante  (published  1491),  the  firebreathings  of  the 
Dragon  on  Cacus'  shoulders  transform  themselves  into  the 
Centaur's  femininely  flowing  hair,  to  signify  the  inspiration  of 
his  forceful  fraud.  Tliis  "  power  on  his  head"  he  has  becauso 
of  such  an  angel. ""  When  we  consider  the  Princess  we  shall 
find  this  symbolism  yet  further  earned,  but  just  now  have  to 
notice  how  the  closely  connected  franchise  of  gmceful  motion, 

chosen  transmigration  was  into  the  form  of  an  eel — other  authorities 
say,  of  a  fish. 

'Dante,  Purg.,  XXII.,  XXIII. 

'Ihid.  Inf.,  VII.  57.     Purg.,  XXII.  40.  ^  7^,^^/.  Inf.,  XXVII. 

^  IhUl.  XXV. 


148  THE  PLAGE  OF  DRAOONS. 

lost  to  those  dishonoured  ones,  is  marked  by  the  most  care- 
fully-painted bones  lying  on  the  left — a  thigh-bone  dislocated 
from  that  of  the  hip,  and  then  thrust  through  it.  Curiously, 
too,  such  dislocation  would  in  life  produce  a  hump,  mimick- 
ing fairly  enough  in  helpless  distortion  that  one  to  which  the 
frog's  leaping  power  is  due.  ^ 

Centrally  in  the  foreground  is  set  the  skull,  perhaps  of  an 
ape,  but  more  probably  of  an  ape-like  man,  "  with  forehead 
villanous  low."  This  lies  so  that  its  eye-socket  looks  out,  as 
it  were,  through  the  empty  eyehole  of  a  sheep's  skull  beside 
it.  When  man's  yision  has  become  ovine  merely,  it  shall  at 
last,  even  of  grass,  see  only  such  bitter  and  dangerous  growth 
as  our  husbandman  must  reap  with  a  spear  from  a  dragon's 
wing. 

The  remaining  minor  words  of  this  poem  in  a  forgotten 
tongue  I  cannot  definitely  interpret.  The  single  skull  with 
jaw-bone  broken  off,  lying  under  the  dragon's  belly,  falls  to 
be  mentioned  afterwards.  The  ghastly  heap  of  them,  crowned 
by  a  human  mummy,  withered  and  brown, ^  beside  the  coil  of 
the  dragon's  tail,  seem  meant  merely  to  add  general  emphasis 
to  the  whole.  The  mummy  (and  not  this  alone  in  the  picture) 
may  be  compared  with  Spenser's  description  of  the  Captain 
of  the  Army  of  Lusts  : — 

"  His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a  rake, 
And  skin  all  withered  like  a  dryed  rook, 
Thereto  as  cold  and  dreary  as  a  snake. 
-;{■  -::-  -)«■  ^5-  * 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  helmet  light, 
Made  of  a  dead  man's  skull,  that  seemed  a  ghastly  sight." 

The  row  of  five  palm  trees  behind  the  dragon's  head  per- 
haps refers  to  the  kinds  of  temptation  over  which  Victory 
must  be  gained,  and  may  thus  be  illustrated  by  the  five  troops 
that  in  Spenser  assail  the  several  senses,  or  beside  Chaucer's 
five  fingers  of  the  hand  of  lust.     It  may  be  observed  that 

^  'Ariadne  Florentina,'  Lect.  III.,  p.  93. 

'^  The  venom  of  the  stellio,  a  spotted  species  of  lizard,  emblem  oi 
shamelessness,  was  held  to  cause  blackening  of  the  face. 


TJlh:  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS.  141) 

Pliny  sj^eaks  of  the  Essenes — preceders  of  the  Christian  Her- 
iiiits — who  had  given  up  the  world  and  its  joys  as  *'gen9 
socia  palmarum."  ' 

Behind  the  dragon,  in  the  far  background,  is  a  great  city. 
Its  walls  and  towers  are  crowded  by  anxious  spectators  of  the 
])attle.  There  stands  in  it,  on  a  lofty  pedestal,  the  equestrian 
statue  of  an  emperor  on  horseback,  perhaps  placed  there  by 
Carpaccio  for  sign  of  Alexandria,  perhaps  merely  from  a  Vene- 
tian's pride  and  joy  in  the  great  figure  of  Colleone  recently 
set  up  in  his  city.  In  the  background  of  the  opposite  (St. 
George's)  side  of  the  j^icture  rises  a  precipitous  hill,  crowned 
by  a  church.  The  cliffs  are  waveworn,  an  arm  of  the  sea 
passing  between  them  and  the  city. 

Of  these  hieroglyphics,  only  the  figure  of  the  princess  now 
remains  for  our  reading.  The  expression  on  her  face,  ineffa- 
ble by  descriptive  words,  ■*  is  translated  into  more  tangible 
symbols  by  the  gesture  of  her  hands  and  arms.  These  repeat, 
with  added  gi-ace  and  infinitely  deepened  meaning,  the  move- 
ment of  maidens  who  encourage  Theseus  or  Cadmus  in  their 
battle  with  monsters  on  many  a  Greek  vase.  They  have  been 
clasped  in  agony  and  prayer,  but  are  now  parting — still  just 
a  little  doubtfully — into  a  gesture  of  joyous  gratitude  to  this 
ca23tain  of  the  army  of  salvation  and  to  the  captain's  Captain. 
Raphael  ^  has  painted  her  running  from  the  scene  of  battle. 
Even  with  Tintoret  *  she  turns  away  for  flight ;  and  if  her 
hands  are  raised  to  heaven,  and  her  knees  fall  to  the  earth,  it 
is  more  that  she  stumbles  in  a  woman's  weakness,  than  that 
she  abides  in  faith  or  sweet  self-surrender.  Tintoret  sees  the 
scene  as  in  the  first  place  a  matter  of  fact,  and  paints  accord- 


»  Pliny,  Hist.  Nat.,  V.  17. 

^  Suppose  Caliban  had  conquered  Prospero,  and  fettered  him  in  a  fig- 
tree  or  elsewhere;  that  Miranda,  after  watching  the  struggle  from  the 
cave,  liad  seen  him  coming  triumphantly  to  seize  her;  and  that  the  first 
Mpearance  of  Ferdinand  is,  just  at  that  moment,  to  her  rescue.  If  we 
conceive  liow  she  would  have  looked  then,  it  may  give  some  parallel  to 
the  expre.ssion  on  the  princess's  face  in  this  picture,  but  without  a  cer- 
tain light  of  patient  devotion  here  well  marked. 

^  Louvre.  *  National  Gallery. 


150  THE  PLAGE  OF  DRAGONS. 

ingiy,  following  his  judgment  of  girl  nature/  Carpaccio 
sees  it  as  above  all  things  a  matter  of  faith,  and  paints  myth- 
ically for  our  teaching.  Indeed,  doing  this,  he  repeats  the 
old  legend  with  more  literal  accuracy.  The  princess  was 
offered  as  a  sacrifice  for  her  people.  If  not  willing,  she  was 
at  least  submissive  ;  nor  for  herself  did  she  dream  of  flight. 
No  chains  in  the  rock  were  required  for  the  Christian  Androm- 
eda. 

**And  the  king  said,  .  .  .  'Daughter,  I  would  you 
had  died  long  ago  leather  than  that  I  should  lose  you  thus.' 
And  she  fell  at  his  feet,  asking  of  him  a  father's  blessing. 
And  when  he  had  blessed  her  once  and  again,  with  tears  she 
went  her  way  to  the  shore.  Now  St.  George  chanced  to  pass 
by  that  place,  and  he  saw  her,  and  asked  why  she  wept.  But 
she  answered,  *  Good  youth,  mount  quickly  and  flee  away, 
that  you  die  not  here  shamefully  with  me.'  Then  St.  George 
said,  '  Fear  not,  maiden,  but  tell  me  what  it  is  you  wait  for 
here,  and  all  the  people  stand  far  off  beholding.'  And  she 
said,  '  i  see,  good  youth,  how  great  of  heart  you  are  ;  but 
why  do  you  wish  to  die  with  me  ? '  And  St.  George  answered, 
*  Maiden,  do  not  fear  ;  I  go  not  hence  till  you  tell  me  why 
you  weep.'  And  when  she  had  told  him  all,  he  answered, 
'  Maiden,  have  no  fear,  for  in  the  name  of  Christ  will  I  save 
you.'  And  she  said,  '  Good  soldier, — lest  you  perish  with 
me  !  For  that  I  perish  alone  is  enough,  and  you  could  not 
save  me  ;  you  would  perish  with  me.'  Now  while  she  spoke 
the  dragon  raised  his  head  from  the  waters.  And  the  maiden 
cried  out,  all  trembling,  '  Flee,  good  my  lord,  flee  away  swift- 
ly.' "  ^  But  our  "very  loyal  chevalier  of  the  faith  "  saw  cause 
to  disobey  the  lady. 

Yet  Carpaccio  means  to  do  much  more  than  just  repeat 
this  story.  His  princess,  (it  is  impossible,  without  undue 
dividing  of  its  substance,  to  j)nt  into  logical  words  the  truth 

^  And  perhaps  from  a  certain  ascetic  feeling,  a  sense  growing  witli  the 
growing  license  of  Venice,  that  the  soul  must  rather  escape  from  this 
monster  by  flight,  than  hope  to  see  it  subdued  and  made  serviceable, 
(vide  p.  14). 

■^  Legenda  Aurea. 


THE  PLACE   OF  DRAGONS.  151 

icre  ''  embodied  in  a  tale,") — but  this  princess  represents  the 
boul  of  man.  And  therefore  she  wears  a  coronet  of  seven 
gems,  for  the  seven  virtues  ;  and  of  these,  the  midmost  that 
crowns  her  forehead  is  shaped  into  the  figure  of  a  cross,  sig- 
nifying faith,  the  saving  virtue.*  We  shall  see  that  in  the 
picture  of  Gethsemane  also,  Carpaccio  makes  the  representa- 
tive of  faith  central.  Without  faith,  men  indeed  may  shun 
the  deepest  abyss,  yet  cannot  attain  the  glory  of  heavenly 
hope  and  love.  Dante  saw  how  such  men — even  the  best — 
may  not  know  the  joy  that  is  perfect.  Moving  in  the  divided 
sj^lendour  merely  of  under  earth,  on  sward  whose  *'  fresh  verd- 
ure," eternally  changeless,  expects  neither  in  patient  waiting 
nor  in  sacred  hope  the  early  and  the  latter  rain,'  "  Sembianza 
avevan  no  trista  ne  lieta." 

This  maiden,  then,  is  an  incarnation  of  spiritual  life,  mysti- 
cally crowned  with  all  the  virtues.  But  their  diviner  meaning 
is  yet  unrevealed,  and  following  the  one  legible  command  she 
goes  down  to  such  a  death  for  her  people,  vainly.  Only  by 
help  of  the  hero  who  slays  monstrous  births  of  nature,  to  sow 
and  tend  in  its  organic  growth  the  wholesome  plant  of  civil 
life,  may  she  enter  into  that  liberty  with  which  Christ  makes 
His  people  free. 

The  coronet  of  the  princess  is  clasped  about  a  close  red  cap 
which  hides  her  hair.  Its  treses  are  not  yet  cast  loose,  inas- 
much as,  till  the  dragon  be  subdued,  heavenly  life  is  not 
secure  for  the  soul,  nor  its  marriage  with  the  great  Bride- 
groom complete.  In  corners  even  of  Western  Europe  to  this 
day,  a  maiden's  hair  is  jealously  covered  till  her  wedding. 
Compare  now  this  head  with  that  of  St.  George.     Cai-paccio, 

'  St.  Tliomas  Aquinas,  putting  logically  the  apostle's  *'  substance  of 
things  hoped  for,"  defines  faitli  as  "a  habit  of  mind  by  which  eternal 
life  is  begun  in  us  "  (Summa  II.  III.  IV.  1). 

•  Epistle  of  James,  v. ,  Dante  selects  (and  Carpaccio  follows  him)  as 
h,  evenly  judge  of  a  right  hope  that  apostle  who  reminds  his  reader  how 
:  lan's  life  is  even  as  a  vapour  that  appeareth  for  a  little  time  and  then 
vanishetli  away.  For  the  connection — geologically  historic — of  grass  and 
showers  with  true  human  life,  compare  Genesis  ii.  5 — 8,  where  the 
right  translation  is,  **And  no  phint  of  the  field  was  yet  in  the  earth, 
and  no  herb  yet  sprung  up  or  grown,"  etc. 


152  THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 

painting  a  divine  service  of  mute  prayer  and  acted  prophecy, 
has  followed  St.  Paul's  law  concerning  vestments.  But  we 
shall  see  how,  when  prayer  is  answered  and  prophecy  fulfilled, 
the  long  hair — "a  glory  to  her,"  and  given  by  Nature  for  a 
veil — is  sufficient  covering  upon  the  maiden's  head,  bent  in  g 
more  mystic  rite. 

From  the  cap  hangs  a  long  scarf-like  veil.  It  is  twisted 
once  about  the  princess's  left  arm,  and  then  floats  in  the  air. 
The  effect  of  this  veil  strikes  one  on  the  first  glance  at  the 
picture.  It  gives  force  to  the  impression  of  natural  fear,  yet 
strangely,  in  light  fold,  adds  a  secret  sense  of  security,  as 
though  the  gauze  were  some  sacred  segis.  And  such  indeed  it 
is,  nor  seen  first  by  Carpaccio,  though  probably  his  intuitive 
invention  here.  There  is  a  Greek  vase-picture  ^  of  Cadmus  at- 
tacking a  dragon.  Ares-begotten,  that  guarded  the  sacred  spring 
of  the  warrior-god.  That  fight  was  thus  for  the  same  holy 
element  whose  symbolic  sprinkling  is  the  end  of  this  one  here. 
A  maiden  anxiously  watches  the  event ;  her  gesture  resembles 
the  princess's  ;  her  arm  is  similarly  shielded  by  a  fold  of  her 
mantle.  But  we  have  a  parallel  at  once  more  familiar  and 
more  instructively  perfect  than  this.  Cadmus  had.a  daughter, 
to  whom  was  given  power  upon  the  sea,  because  in  utmost 
need  she  had  trusted  herself  to  the  mercy  of  its  billows. 
Lady  of  its  foam,  in  hours  ^en  *Hhe  blackening  wave  is 
edged  with  white,"  she  is  a  holier  and  more  helpful  Aphrodite, 
— a  "  water-sprite  "  whose  voice  foretells  that  not  "wreck'' 
but  salvation  "  is  nigh."  In  the  last  and  most  terrible  crisis 
of  that  long  battle  with  the  Power  of  Ocean,  who  denied  him 
a  return  to  his  Fatherland,  Ulysses  would  have  perished  in  the 
waters  without  the  veil  of  Leucothea  wrapped  about  his  breast 
as  divine  life-buoy.  And  that  veil,  the  "  immortal "  Kp-qSefjivovy' 
was  just  such  a  scarf  attached  to  the  head-dress  as  this  one  o- 


^  Inghirami  gives  this  (No.  239). 

^  In  pursuance  of  the  same  symbolism,  Troy  walls  were  once  literally 
called  "  salvation,"  this  word,  with,  for  certain  historical  reasons,  the 
added  epithet  of  '*  holy,"  being  applied  to  them.  With  the  Kp^defxva 
Penelope  shielded  her  "  tender  "  cheeks  in  presence  of  the  suitors. 


TUB  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS.  153 

the  princess's  here. '  Curiously,  too,  we  shall  see  that  Leuco- 
thea  (at  first  called  Ino),  of  Thebes'  and  Cadmus'  line,  daughter 
of  Harmonia,  is  closely  connected  with  certain  sources  of  the 
story  of  St.  George.'^  But  we  have  first  to  consider  the  drag- 
on's service. 

'  Vide  Nitsch  ad  Od.,  V.  346. 
*  KeyovTi  5*  cV  koX  6a\do-(ra 
fiiorov  &(pdiTou 
*Ii/Oi  rcrdxdai  rhu  o\ou  cifxtpX  xp^^ov. 

(Find.   01.,  II.  51.) 


The  Editor  had  hope  of  publishing  this  book  a  full  year 
ago.  lie  now  in  all  humility,  yet  not  in  uncertainty,  can  sum 
the  causes  of  its  delay,  both  with  respect  fco  his  friend  and  to 
himseK,  in  the  words  of  St.  Paul, 


Kai  iv€KO\l/€v  rjfxa<i  6  Saravas* 


Br/  v"^twood, 

Qi/i  March,  1879. 


APPEI^DIX   TO    CHAPTER   VIII 


SANOTUS,  SANOTUS,  SA^-OTUS. 


AN    ACCOUNT    OF  THE   MOSAICS   IN   THE  BAPTISTERY   OF 
ST.  MARK'S. 

**  The  whole  edifice  is  to  be  regarded  less  as  a  temple  wherein  to  pray 
than  as  itself  a  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  a  vast  illuminated  missal, 
bound  with  alabaster  instead  of  parchment." 

Stones  of  Venice.,  ii.  4,  46. 

*<  We  must  take  some  pains,  therefore,  when  we  enter  St.  Mark's,  to 
read  all  that  is  inscribed,  or  we  shall  not  penetrate  into  the  feeling 
either  of  the  builder  or  of  his  times.'*  Stones  of  Venice^  ii.  4,  64. 


The  following  catalogue  of  the  mosaics  of  the  Baptistery  of 
St.  Mark's  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1882,  after  a  first  visit 
to  Venice,  and  was  then  sent  to  Mr.  Ruskin  as  a  contribution  to 
his  collected  records  of  the  ch\u*ch.  It  was  not  intended  for 
publication,  but  merely  as  not^s  or  material  for  which  he 
might  possibly  find  some  use  ;  and  if  the  reader  in  Venice 
will  further  remember  that  it  is  the  work  of  no  artist  or  anti- 
quarian, but  of  a  traveller  on  his  holiday,  he  will,  it  is  hoped, 
be  the  more  ready  to  pai-don  errors  and  omissions  which  his 
own  observation  can  correct  and  suppl3^  The  mosaics  of  the 
Baptistery  are,  of  course,  only  a  small  portion  of  those  to  be 
seen  throughout  the  church,  but  that  portion  is  one  complete 
in  itself,  and  more  than  enough  to  illustrate  the  vast  amount 
of  thought  contained  in  the  scripture  legible  on  the  walls  of 
St.  Mark's  by  every  comer  who  is  desii'ous  of  taking  any  real 
interest  in  the  building. 

The  reader,  then,  who  proposes  to  make  use  of  the  present 
guide  can,  by  reference  to  the  following  list,  see  at  a  glance 


^'-'S  SI.  MARK'S  REST. 

the  subjects  with  which  these  mosaics  deal,  and  the  order  in 
which  his  attention  will  be  directed  to  them.  They  are,  in 
addition  to  the  altar-piece,  these  : — 

I.  The  Life  of  St.  John  the  Baptist. 

II.  The  Lifaney  of  Christ. 
Ill  St.  Nicholas. 
IV.  The  Four  Evangelists. 

V.  The  Four  Saints. 
VI.  The  Greek  Fathers. 
VII.  The  Latin  Fathers. 
VIII  Christ  and  the  Prophets. 
IX.  Christ  and  the  Apostles. 

X.  Chj-Ist  and  the  Angels. 

The  subject  of  the  altar-piece  is  the  Crucifixion.  In  the 
centre  is  Christ  on  the  cross,  the  letters  IC.  XC.  on  either 
side.  Over  the  cross  are  two  angels,  veiling  their  faces  with 
their  robes  ;  at  its  foot  lies  a  skull, — Golgotha, — upon  which 
falls  the  blood  from  Christ's  feet,  whilst  on  each  side  of  the 
Saviour  are  five  figures,  those  at  the  extreme  ends  of  the  mo- 
saic being  a  doge  and  dogaress,  probably  the  donors  of  the 
mosaic. 

To  the  left  is  St.  Mark— SliOElCVS— with  an  open  book 
in  his  hand,  showing  the  words,  "  In  illo  tempore 
Maria  mater  .  .  .  ."  "In  that  hour  Mary  his 
mother  .  .  .  ."  She  stands  next  the  cross,  with 
her  hands  clasped  in  grief  ;  above  her  are  the 
letters  M— P  ©  V— ^uT/rf/p  ©€o{)— Mother  of  God. 
To  the  right  of  the  cross  is  St.  John  the  Evangelist — S. 
lOHES  EVG — his  face  covered  with  his  hands,  receiving 
charge  of  the  Virgin  :  "  When  Jesus,  therefore,  saw  his 
mother,  and  the  disciple  standing  by,  whom  he  loved,  he  saith 
unto  his  mother.  Woman,  behold  thy  son  !  Then  saith  he  to 
the  disciple,  Behold  thy  mother !  And  from  that  hour  the 
disciple  took  her  unto  his  own  home  "  (St.  John  xix.  26,  27). 

Lastly,  next  St.  John  the  Evangelist  is  St.  John  the  Baptist, 
bearing  a  scroll,  on  which  are  the  words  : 


**  ECCE  AGNUS  DEI  ECE  . . . .  " 

**  Ecce  agnus  Dei,  ecce  qui  toUit  peccatum  mundi." 

*'  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  which  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world  '* 
(St.  Johni.  29).' 

L  The  Life  of  St.  John  the  Baptist. — Leaving  the  altar  and 
turning  to  the  right,  we  have  the  first  mosaic  in  the  series 
which  gives  the  life  of  the  Baptist,  and  consists  in  all  of  ten 
pictures.     (See  plan,  p.  160.) 

a.  His  birth  is  announced. 
6.  He  is  born  and  named. 
i  c.  He  is  led  into  the  desert. 

d.  He  receives  a  cloak  from  an  angeL 

f .  He  preaches  to  the  people. 
/.  He  answers  the  Pharisees. 

g.  He  baptizes  Christ. 

h.  He  is  condemned  to  death. 

^.  He  is  beheaded.  ♦ 

j.  He  is  buried. 

7.  ffis  hirih  is  announced. — This  mosaic  has  three  divisions. 

1.  To  the  left  is  Zacharias  at  the  altar,  with  the  angel  ap- 
peariag  to  him.  He  swings  a  censer,  burning  incense  "  in 
the  oixier  of  his  course."  He  has  heard  the  angel's  message, 
for  his  look  and  gesture  show  clearly  that  he  is  already  struck 
dumb.     Above  are  the  words  : 

IXGRESSO  ZACHARIA  TEPLV  DNI 
J^MNTY  EI  AGLS  DNI  STAS 
A  DEXTBIS  ALTARIS 

*'  Ingresso  Zacharia  templum  domini  aparuit  ei  angelus  domiiii  stun- 
a  dextris  altaris.  '* 

"  When  Zacharias  had  entered  the  temple  of  the  Lord  there  appear*  ' 
to  him  an  angel  of  the  Lord  standing  on  the  right  side  of  the  altar 
(St.  Luke  i.  9-11). 

*  Tlie  scriptural  referoncos  in  thi?;  appendix  are,  first,  to  the  Vulgate, 
which  most  oi  the  legends  in  the  Baptistery  follow,  and,  secondly,  to 
the  English  version  of  the  Bible.  The  visitor  will  also  notice  that 
throughout  the  chajwl  the  sct-olls  are  constantly  treated  by  the  mosaic- 
ists  literally  as  scrolls,  the  text  being  cut  short  even  in  the  middle  of  a 
word  by  the  curl  of  the  supposed  parchment. 


160 


ST,  MARK'S  REST, 


PLAN  OF  THE  BAPTISTERY. 


DOOR  INTO  TtfS  Z£NO  CttAPSL. 


APPENDIX  TO    CUAPTEU    VIII.  >♦  I 

2.  "  And  the  people  waited  for  Zacharias,  and  marvelled 
that  he  tarried  so  long  in  the  temple.  And  when  he  came 
out,  he  could  not  speak  unto  them :  and  they  perceived  that 
he  had  seen  » vision  in  the  temple  :  for  he  beckoned  unto 
them,  and  remained  speechless  "  (St.  Luke  i.  21,  22), 

►>  H.  S.  ZAHARIAS  EXIT 
TUTUS  AD  PPLM 

**  Hie  sanctus  Zacharias  exit  tutus  ad  populum." 
'*Here  saint  Zacharias  comes  out  safe  to  the  people." 

3.  '*He  departed  to  his  own  house"  (St.  Luke  i.  2^). 
Zacharias  embracing  his  wife  Elizabeth. 

•fiSTZ^A 

RIAS.  S.  ELI 

SABETA 

h.  He  is  born  and  named  (opposite  the  door  int(5  the  church). 
— Zacharias  is  seated  to  the  left  ^  of  the  picture,,  and  has  a 
book  or  "  writing  table  "  in  front  of  him,  in  which 
he  has  written  **  Johannes  est  nomen  ejus" — 
*'  His  name  is  John  "  (Luke  i.  63).  To  the  right 
an  aged  woman,  Elizabeth,  points  to  the  child 
inquiringly,  "  How  would  you  have  him  called  ?  " ; 
further  to  the  right,  another  and  younger  woman  kneels,  hold- 
ing out  the  child  to  his  father.  At  the  back  a  servant  with  a 
basket  in  her  arms  looks  on.  Unlike  the  other  two  women, 
she  has  no  glory  about  her  head.  Above  is  a  tablet  in- 
scribed : — 

NATIVITAS 
SANCTI  JOHANNIS 

BAPTISTS 

and  below  another  tablet,  with  the  date  and  artist's  name — 

FRAN'  TURESSn^S  V.F.  IVIDCXXVni. 

*  By  ''  iii;,iii ""  .tiiti    •  left"  in  this  .ipptiiuix  is  meant  alwav.-s  the  riglit 
and  left  hand  of  the  spectator  as  he  faces  his  subject. 
11 


It)^  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

Turning  now  to  tlie  west  wall,  and  standing  with  tlie  altar 
behind  us,  we  have  the  next  three  mosaics  of  the  series, 
thus — 


VAULT  OF  ROOF 


c.  He  is  led  into  the  desert. — The  words  of  the  legends  are  : — • 

K>  QVOM  .4S^GELV'  SEDOVXAT  S.  lOHAN. 
I.  DESERTUM. 

*'  Quomodo  angelus  seduxit  (?)  sanctum  Joliannem 

in  desertum." 
"How  an  angel  led  away  saint  John  into  the  desert." 

This  is  not  biblical.  '•'  And  the  child  grew  and  waxed  strong 
in  spirit,  and  was  in  the  deserts  till  the  day  of  his  showing  unto 
Israel"  is  all  St.  Luke  (i.  80)  says.  Here  the  infant  Baptist  is 
being  led  by  an  angel,  who  points  onward  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  holds  that  of  the  child,  who,  so  far  from  being 
"strong  in  spirit,"  looks  troubled,  and  has  one  hand  placed 
on  his  heart  in  evident  fear.  His  other  hand,  in  the  grasp  of 
the  angel's,  does  not  in  any  way  hold  it,  but  is  held  by  it  ;  he 
is  literally  being  led  into  the  desert  somewhat  against  his  will. 
The  word  sedouaxat  (?  mediaeval  for  seduxit)  may  here  well 
have  this  meaning  of  persuasive  leading.  It  should  also  be 
noted  that  the  child  and  his  guide  are  already  far  on  their 
way  :  they  have  left  all  vegetation  behind  them  ;  only  a  stony 
rock  and  rough  ground,  with  one  or  two  tufts  of  grass  and  a 
leafless  tree,  are  visible. 

d.  He  7'eceives  a  cloak  from  an  angel. — This  is  also  not  bibli- 
cal.    The  words  above  the  mosaic  are — 

HC  AGELUS  EEPRESETAT  VESTE  BTO  lOHI 

"Hie  angelus  representat vestem  be  to  Johanni." 

"  Here  the  angel  gives  (back  ?)  a  garment  to  the  blessed  John.'* 


APPENDIX  TO   CHAPTER    VIIL  163^ 

Johu  wears  his  cloak  of  camel's  hair,  and  holds  in  one; 
MT    hand  a  scroll,   on  which  is  written  an  abbreviation 
^^    of  the  Greek  *>€ravo€tT€  "— "  Repent  ye." 
E 

e.  He  preaches  to  the  people. 

HIC  PREDICATJ 

**Here  he  j^reaches"  [or  "predicts  the  Christ**]. 

The  Baptist  is  gaunt  and  thin  ;  he  wears  his  garment  of 
camel's  hair,  and  has  in  his  hand  a  staff  with  a  cross  at  the  top 
of  it.  He  stands  in  a  sort  of  pulpit,  behind  which  is  a  build- 
ing, presumably  a  church  ;  whilst  in  front  of  him  Hsten  three 
old  men,  a  woman,  and  a  child.     Below  are  three  more  women. 

/.  He  answers  the  Pharisees  (on  the  wall  opposite  e), — 
To  the  right  are  the  priests  and  Levites  sent  from  Jerusalem, 
asking,  *'What  says  he  of  himself?"  They  are  four  in  num- 
ber, a  Eabbi  and  three  Pharisees.  To  the  left  is  St.  John 
with  two  disciples  behind  him.  Between  them  rolls  the  Jor- 
dan, at  the  ferry  to  which  (Bethabara)  the  discussion  between 
the  Baptist  and  the  Jews  took  place,  and  across  the  river  the 
Babbi  asks : 

QVOM  .  ERGO  .  BJPT 

ZAS  .  SI  NQE  .  XPS  .  NE 

g  .  HELLA,.  NEQ'  PHA 

**  Quomodo  ergo  baptizas  si  iieque  Christus,  neque  Elia,  neque  Pro- 
pheta  ?  " ' 

**  Why  baptizest  thou,  then,  if  thou  be  not  that  Christ,  nor  Eli;  . 
neither  that  prophet  ?  "     (John  i.  25). 

St.  John  does  not,  however,  give  the  answer  recorded  of 
him  in  the  Gospel,  but  another  written  above  his  head 
thus  : — 

'  The  mark  of  abbreviation  ovt  i  )ws  the  omission  of  an  h  ii 

the  mediaeval  **  predichat" 

•  The  Vulgate  has  **  Quid  ergo  baptizas  si  tu  non  es,"  etc. 


164  JS1\  MAUirS  BEST, 

►J*  EGO^APTIZO  INO  ''Egobaptizo   in   nomine  patrio  et 

MIE  PATRIS  _  filii  &  Spiritus  sancti. " 

ET  .  FILII  .  7.  SP'  **I   baptize   in   the   name    of    tlie 

SCI  Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit." 

g.  He  baptizes  Christ. 

HICE  BAPTISMV  XPI 

On  the  left  is  a  tree  with  an  axe  laid  to  its  root.  In  the 
centre  stands  St.  John,  with  his  hand  on  the  head  of  Christ, 
who  stands  in  the  midst  of  the  river.  Three  angels  look  down 
from  the  right  bank  into  the  water  ;  and  in  it  are  five  fishes, 
over  one  of  which  Christ's  hand  is  raised  in  blessing.  Below 
is  a  child  with  a  golden  vase  in  one  hand,  probably  the  river 
god  of  the  Jordan,  who  is  sometimes  introduced  into  these 
pictures.  From  above  a  ray  of  light,  with  a  star  and  a  dove 
in  it,  descends  on  the  head  of  Christ :  "  And  Jesus  when  he 
was  baptized,  went  up  straightway  out  of  the  water  :  and,  lo, 
the  heavens  were  opened  unto  him,  and  he  saw  the  Spirit  of 
God  descending  like  a  dove,  and  lighting  upon  him  :  and,  lo, 
a  voice  from  heaven,  saying,  This  is  my  beloved  Son,  in  whom 
I  am  well  pleased  "  (Matt.  iii.  16,  17). 

h.  His  death  is  commanded  by  Herod  (over  the  door  into  the 
main  body  of  the  church). 


The  mosaic  is  (according  to  the  sacristan)  entirely  restored, 
and  the  letters  of  the  legend  appear  to  have  been  incorrectly 
treated.     The  words  are   "Puellee  saltanti  imperavit  mater 


APPENDIX  TO   CHAPTER    VIII  165 

nihil  (?  mchil)  aliud  petas  nisi  caput  Johannis  Baptistse  " 
**And  as  the  girl  danced  her  mother  commanded  her,  sayiug, 
Ask  for  nothing-  else,  but  only  for  the  head  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist." 

Five  uguicD  are  seen  in  the  mosaic  : — 

1.  Herod  with  his  hands  raised  in  horror  and  distress, 
^^  exceeding  sorry  "  (Mark  vi.  26). 

2.  Herodias,  pointing  at  him,  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 

3.  Herodias'  daughter  dancing,  with  the  charger  on  her  head. 

4.  Another  figure  with  regard  to  which  see  ante,  p.  67,  §  8, 
where  it  is  suggested  that  the  figure  i»  St.  John  at  a  former 
time,  saying  to  Herod,  "  It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  to  have  her." 
If  this  is  not  so,  it  may  be  that  the  figure  represents  the 
"lords,  high  captains,  and  chief  estates  of  Galilee  "  (Mark  vi, 
21)  who  were  at  the  feast. 

5.  A  servant  in  attendance, 

I.  He  is  beheaded, 

^l^  DECHOLACIO  SCI  lOHIS  BAT. 
**  The  beheading  of  St.  John  the  Baptist." 

To  the  left  is  the  headless  body  of  St.  John,  still  in  prison. 
**  And  immediately  the  king  sent  an  executioner  (or  *  one  of 
his  guard'),  and  he  went  and  beheaded  him  in  prison."  The 
Baptist  has  leant  forward,  and  his  hands  are  stretched  out,  as 
if  to  save  himself  in  falling.  A  Koman  soldier  is  sheathing  his 
sword,  and  looks  somewhat  disgusted  at  the  daughter  of 
Herodias  as  she  carries  the  head  to  her  mother,  who  sits  en- 
throned near.     (See  ante,  p.  69,  §  10.) 

j.  He  is  buried. — "  And  when  his  disciples  heard  of  it  they 
came  and  took  up  his  corpse  and  laid  it  in  a  tomb  "  (Mark  ^  i. 

29). 

* '  Hie  sepelitur  corpus  sancti  Johan- 
H.  SEPELITVE  .  CO  nis  Baptistae  "— '^  Here   is    being 

RPVS  .  S  .  lOHIS  .  BAT  buried  tlie  body  of  St.  Jolm  the 

(See  ante,  p.  69,  §  10.).  Baptist." 

The  headless  body  of  the  Baptist  is  being  laid  in  the  err 
by  two  disciples,  whilst  a  third  swings  a  censer  over  it. 


166  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

n.  The  Infancy  of  Christ. — Going  back  now  to  the  west  ^nd 
of  the  chapel,  we  have  four  mosaics  representing  scenes  in  the 
infancy  of  Christ. 

1.  The  wise  men  before  Herod.      |  Above  c  and  e  in  the  Life 

2.  The  wise  men  adoring  Christ,  j  ^^  ^^-  Jol^^i- 

3.  The  flight  into  Egypt.  ^  O^^^^.^^  ,  ^^^  3_ 

4.  The  Holy  Innocents.  ) 

1.  The  loise  men  before  Hei^od. 

Herod  is  seated  on  his  throne,  attended  by  a  Eoman  sol- 
dier ;  he  looks  puzzled  and  anxious.  Before  him  are  the  three 
kings  in  attitudes  of  supplication  ;  and  above  are  the  words — 

*i,  VBIE  .  QVINATU'  .  EST  .  REX  .  JUD^ORUM 

*'  Ubi  est  qui  natus  est  rex  Judseorum  ?  "  i  q     Tvr  +f    ••    o 

*' Where  is  he  that  is  born  king  of  the  Jews  ?"  ) 

2.  The  ivise  men  adoring  Christ. 

•f   ADORABVT    EV    ONS    REGES   TERE    ET    OMS    GETES    SER- 
VIENT EI 

"  Adorabunt  eum  omnes  reges  terrse,  (et)  omnes  gentes  servient  ei." 
' '  Yea,  all  kings  shall  fall  down  before  him  ;  all  nations  shall  serve 
him"  (Psalm  Ixxii.  10,  11). 

In  the  centre  is  the  Madonna  seated  on  a  throne,  which  is 
also  part  of  the  stable  of  the  inn.  On  her  knees  is  the  infant 
Christ,  with  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand  raised  in  benediction. 
The  Madonna  holds  out  her  hand,  as  if  showing  the  Child  to 
the  kings,  who  approach  Him  with  gifts  and  in  attitudes  of 
devout  worship.  To  the  left  is  a  man  leading  a  camel  out  of  a 
building  ;  whilst  to  the  right  of  the  stable  lies  Joseph  asleep, 
with  an  angel  descending  to  him  :  "Arise  and  take  the  young- 
child. "  (See  the  next  mosaic.)  The  rays  from  the  central 
figure  of  the  vaulted  roof  fall,  one  on  the  second  of  the  three 
kings,  and  another,  the  most  brilliant  of  them, — upon  which, 
where  it  breaks  into  triple  glory,  the  star  of  Bethlehem  is 
set, — upon  the  Madonna  and  the  Christ, 


APPENDIX  TO    CHAPTER    VIIL  167 

3.  The  flight  into  Egi/pt. 

>l*  SVRGB    ET    ACGIPE   PUERVM    ET   MATREM  EU»   ET   FUGE 
IN  EGYPTUM  .  ET  ESTO  IBI  USQ'   DVM  DICAM  TIP>T 

*' Surge  et  accipe  piierum  et  matrem  ejus  et  fuge  in  Egyptum 
ibi  usque  dum  dicam  tibi." 

"  Arise  and  take  the  young  child  and  his  mother,  and  flee  into  i'^gypi, 
and  be  there  until  I  bring  thee  word  "  (St.  Matt.  ii.  13). 

A  youth  carrying  a  gourd  leads  into  a  building  witli  :i 
mosque-like  dome  a  white  ass,  on  which  is  seated  tlie  Ma- 
donna, holding  the  infant  Christ.  Joseph  walks  behind,  car- 
rying a  staff  and  cloak.  The  fact  of  the  journey  being  sud(^n 
and  hasty  is  shown  by  the  very  few  things  which  the  fugitives 
have  taken  with  them — only  a  cloak  and  a  goui'd  ;  they  have 
left  the  presents  of  the  three  kings  behind. 

4.  The  Holy  Innocents, 

►^  TUNC  .  HERODE'  VIDE'  Q'MILVSV^  EET  AMAGI'  IRATVE  .  RE, 

DE.  7.  MIT 
TEg  OCCIDIT.  QMS  PUERO'  QVI.  ERANT .  BETHLEEM  QM.OIRUS 
FINIBUS.  EIVS.i 

"Tunc  Herodes  videns  quonium  illusus  esset  a  magis  iratus  est  valde, 
et  mittens  occidit  onines  pueros  qui  erant  in  Bethlehem  et  in  omnibus 
finibus  ejus." 

*'  Then  Herod,  when  he  saw  that  he  was  mocked  of  the  wise  men, 
was  exceeding  wroth,  and  sent  forth,  and  slew  all  the  children  that 
were  in  Bethlehem,  and  in  all  the  coasts  thereof  "  (Matt.  ii.  16). 

Three  Roman  soldiers  are  kilhng  the  children,  some  of 
whom  already  lie  dead  and  bleeding  on  the  rocky  gi'ound. 
To  the  right  is  a  mother  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  near 
her  another  woman  is  holding  up  her  hands  in  grief. 

lU.  St.  Nicholas. 

Just  below  the  mosaic  of  the  Holy  Innocents  is  one  of  S. 
NICOLAU' — St.  Nicholas — with  one  hand  raised  in  benedic- ! 

'  The  letters  underlined  are  unintelligible,  as  otherwise  the  legend  ] 
follows  the  Vulgate.  Possibly  the  words  have  been  retouched,  and  the  I 
letters  incorrectly  restored.  | 


108  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

tion  whilst  the  other  holds  a  book.  He  is  here,  close  to  the 
small  door  that  opens  on  to  the  Piazzetta,  the  nearest  to  the 
sea  of  all  the  saints  in  St.  Mark's,  because  he  is  the  sea  saint, 
the  patron  of  all  ports,  and  especially  of  Venice.  He  was,  it 
is  well  known,  with  St.  George  and  St.  Mark,  one  of  the  three 
saints  who  saved  Venice  frem  the  demon  ship  in  the  storm 
ivhen  St.  Mark  gave  to  the  fishermen  the  famous  ring. 

There  now  remain  for  the  traveller's  examination  the  three 
vaults  of  the  Baptistery,  the  arches  leading  from  one  division 
3f  the  chapel  to  another,  and  the  spandrils  which  support  the 
font  and  altar  domes.  In  the  arch  leading  from  the  west  end 
A  the  chapel  to  the  front  are  the  four  evangelists ;  in  that 
heading  from  the  dome  over  the  font  to  that  over  the  altar  are 
four  saints,  whilst  in  the  spandrils  of  the  two  last-named  domes 
ire,  over  the  font,  the  four  Greek,  and  over  the  altar  the  four 
Latin  fathers. 

IV.  The  Four  Evangelists. 

S.  LUCAS  EVG. 

St.  Luke  is  writing  in  a  book,  and  has  written  a  letter  and 
I  half,  possibly  QV,  the  first  two  letters  of  Quonium — '*  For- 
ismuch  " — which  is  the  opening  word  of  his  Gospel. 

S.   MARCVS  EVG. 

St.  Mark  is  sharpening  his  pencil,  and  has  a  pair  of  pincers 
Dn  his  desk. 

S.    lOHES  EVG. 

St.  John  is  represented  as  very  old, — alluding  of  course  to 
[lis  having  written  his  Gospel  late  in  life. 

S.  MATHEV  EVG. 

St.  Matthew  is  writing,  and  just  dipping  his  pen  in  the  ink. 

V.  Four  Saints — >S'^.  Anthony,  St.  Fietro  Urseolo,  St.  Isidore^ 
St.  Theodore. 


a.  SL  Anthony  (on  tho  left  at  the  bottom  of  the  arch). 

ILB  EA 

TO  AN 

TON  10  *'I1  beato  AnLoiii.,  -ij  Bresa." 

DI  BR 

E  SA 

St.  Anthony  is  the  hermit  saint  He  stands  here  with 
clasped  hands,  and  at  his  side  is  a  skull,  the  sign  of  penitence. 
He  wears,  as  in  many  other  pictures  of  him,  a  monk's  dress, 
in  allusion  to  his  being  **the  founder  of  ascetic  monachism," 
"His  temptations"  are  well  known. 

h,  St.  JPielro  Urseolo  (above  St.  Anthony), 

•J*  BEA  TUS  *'  Beatus  Petrus  Ursiolo  dux(s)  Vened.'* 

PETER  VVRSI  *^The   blessed   Pietro  Urseolo,  Doge  of 

O  BUXS                    the  Venetians." 

LO  VENED 

This  Doge  turned  monk.  Influenced  by  the  teaching  of  the 
abbot  Giiarino,  when  he  came  to  Venice  from  his  convent  in 
Guyenne,  Pietro  left  his  ducal  palace  one  September  night, 
fled  from  Venice,  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  monastery  of 
Cusano,  where  he  remained  for  nineteen  years,  till  his  deatli 
in  997, 

Here  he  is  represented  as  a  monk  in  a  white  robe,  with  a 
black  cloak.  He  holds  in  his  hand  the  Doge's  cap,  which  he 
has  doffed  for  ever,  and  as  he  looks  upwards,  there  shines 
down  on  him  a  ray  of  light,  in  the  centre  of  which  is  seen  the 
Holy  Dove. 

c.  St.  Isidore  (opposite  the  Doge). 

S.   ISIDORVS  MARTIR(?) 

This  is  St,  Isidore  of  Chios,  a  mart^T  saint,  who  perished 
during  the  persecutions  of  the  Christians  by  the  Emperor 
Decius,  A.D.  250.  He  appears  to  have  been  much  worshipped 
at  Venice,  where  he  is  buried.  Here  he  is  seen  dressed  as  a 
warrior,  and  bearing  a  shield  and  a  lily,  the  symbol  of  purity. 

'  See  Stones  of  Venice^  vol.  ii.  chap,  viii  §  127,  and  vol.  iii.  chap.  ii. 
p  01.  His  body  was  brought  to  Venice  with  that  of  St.  Douato  in  1126 
by  the  Doge  Domenico  Michiel.     See  ante  p.  14. 


170  ST.  MARK'S  REST. 

d,  St.  Theodore,     s.  theoix)r.     m. 

He  is  with  St.  George,  St.  Demetrius,  and  St.  Mercurius, 
one  of  the  four  Greek  warrior  saints  of  Christendom,  besides 
being,  of  course,  the  patron  saint  of  Venice.  He  is  martyi-  as 
well  as  warrior,  having  fired  the  temple  of  Cybele,  and  per- 
ished in  the  flames,  a.d.  300. 

The  four  saints  upon  this  arch  thus  represent  two  forms 
of  Christian  service  ;  St.  Anthony  and  the  Doge  being  chosen 
as  types  of  asceticism,  and  the  other  two  as  examples  of 
actual  martyrdom. 

VI.  The  Four  Greek  Fathers — St.  John  Chrysostoiriy  St. 
Gregory  Nazianzeniis,  St.  Basil  the  Great,  and  St.  Athanasius  (on 
the  spandrils  of  the  central  dome). 

a.  s.  lOHES  CRisosTOMOS  PATKA  (patriarch),  on  the  right  of  the 
door  leading  into  the  church. 

He  has  no  mitre,  being  one  of  the  Greek  Fathers,  who  are 
thus  disting*uished  from  the  Latin  Fathers,  all  of  whom,  except 
St.  Jerome  (the  cardinal),  wear  mitres. 

He  bears  a  scroll — 

*l^  REG 

NVM.I 

KTRA  *'  Regnum  intrabit,  quern  non  sit  purus 

BIT.Q  arte  lavabit." 

VE.NON"  "  He  shall  enter  the  kingdom  :  who  is 

S, PVR  not  clean,  him  shall  he  thoroughly  wash.  '* 

VS  ^T 

E.LAV 

ABIT 

b.  s.  GREGORivs  NAZiANZENus  (to  the  right  of  St.  John  Chry- 
Bostom).  He  is  represented,  as  he  usually  is,  as  old  and  worn 
with  fasting.     On  his  scroll  is  written — 

►>  QVO 

BNA 

TURA  *  *  Quod  natura  tulit  Christus  baptismate 

TULI  curat." 

T  XPS  "■  What  nature  has  brought,  Christ  by 

BAPTI  baptism  cures." 

SMAT 

ECV 

RAT 


jiri  jijiyjjiu\     I'f    '  I ijii  1  Hill     viu.  j  *  l 

e.  s.  BASIL  (to  the  right  of  his  friend  St.  Gregory].  8t.  Basil 
the  Great,  the  founder  of  inonachism  in  the  East,  began  liis 
life  of  devotion  in  early  youth,  and  is  here  represented  as  n 
young  man.  The  order  of  the  BasiHcans  is  still  the  only  order 
in  the  Greek  Church.     His  scroll  has — 

►J*  UT  SO  '*Ut  sole  est  primuin  lux"  (as  by  th' 

LE  EST  sun  first  wo  have  light).     The  rest  is  \x\\ 

PRIMUM  intelligible,  except  the  last  word,  whicl! 

LUX)MU  suggests  that  the  comparison  is  between 

EIRIDE  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  spiritual  light 

BAfiS  of  baptism. 
MUM 

d.  s,  ATHANASius,  old  and  white-haired.     His  scroll  runs — 

->  UT  UN 

UM  EST 

NUM  '*  Ut  ununi  est  nunien,  sic  sacro  munere 

EN  SI  a  lumen  (?  atque  lumen)." 

C  SACK  *'As  the  Godhead  is  one,   so  also  by 

NERE  God's  gift  is  light  "  (?) 

OMU 
ALV 
MEN 

Vn.  The  Four  Latin  Fathers — St.  Jerome,  St.  Ambrose,  Sf. 
Augustine,  and  St.  Gregory  the  Great  (on  the  spandrils  of  the 
altar  dome). 

The  light   here  is  very  bad  ;   and  even  after  accustoming 
himself  to  it,  the  reader  will  hardly  be  able  to  do  more  than 
see  that  all  four  figures  have  books  before  them,  in  which  they 
are  writing,  apparently  in  Greek  characters.    What  they  hav  > 
written — in  nc^  case  more  than  a  few  letters — is  impossible  t' 
decipher  from  the  floor  of  the   chapel.     St.  Jerome  wears  hi- 
cardinal's  hat  and  robes,  and  St.  Ambrose  has  his  bee-hi^^ 
near  him,  in  allusion  to  the  story  that  when  in  his  cradle  ; 
swarm  of  bees  once  lighted  on  his  lips  and  did  not  sting  him. 

The  visitor  has  thus  examined  all  the  mosaics  except  those 
of  the  three  domes.  He  must  now,  therefore,  return  from 
near  the  altar  to  the  fiu-ther  end  of  the  chapel,  and  take  the 
first  vaulting  (for  accurately  this  is  not  a  dome)  of  that  part 
of  the  roof. 


liti 


ST.  MARK'S  REST, 


Vni.  Christ  and  the  Prophets. 

In  the  centre  is  Christ,  surrounded  by  the  prophets  and 
patriarchs  of  the  Old  Testament,  each  of  whom  unfolds  a 
scroll  and  displays  on  it  a  portion  of  his  own  prophecy. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  altar,  the  visitor  will  thus  see 
to  the  left  of  the  Christ,  Zephaniah  and  Elisha,  and  to  his 
right  Isaiah  and  Hosea. 

1.  ZEPHANIAH.  SOPHONIAH  PHA  (proplieta). 
His  scroll  runs  thus  : — 

EXPE  *'  Bxpecta  me  in  die  resurrectionis  mese 

TA  ME  quoniam  ju(dicium  meum  ut  congregem 

INDIE  gentes).'' 

RESU  See  Zeph.  iii.  8.     This  legend  is  short- 

EECT  ened,  and  not  quite  accurately  quoted, 

lONIS  from  the  Vulgate.     Our  version  is  : — 

MEB  '  *  Wait  ye  upon  me  until  the  day  that 

QUO  I  rise   up  . .  for  my  determination  is  to 

NIMA  gather  the  nations. ..." 
lU 


2.  ELISHA. 


Scroll : 


—PATER 
MI  PA 
TERMI 
CURRU^ 
ISRAEL 
ETAU 
RIGA 
EIVS 


ELISEAS  PHA 


*'  Pater  mi,  pater  mi,  currus  Israel  et 
auriga  ejus." 

"My  father,  my  father,  the  chariot  of 
Israel  and  the  horsemen  thereof." 

2  Kings  ii.  12. 


3.  ISAIAH. 


Scroll : 


-ECCE  V 
IRGOc 
CIPIET 
ETPAR 
lET  FHJ 
UMET  V 
OCABIT_ 
UR  NOM 


ISAIAS 
PHA 

' '  Ecce  virgo  concipiel  et  pariet  filium 
et  vocabitur  nom  (en  ejus  Emmanuel). " 

'* Behold  a  virgin  shall  conceive'  and 
bear  a  son,  and  shall  call  his  name  Im- 
manuel."  ^ 

Isa.  vii.  14. 


^  Isaiah  is  constantly  represented  with  these  words  on  his  scroll,  as, 
for  example,  on  the  roof  of  the  Arena  Chapel  at  Padua,  and  on  tlie 
western  porches  of  the  cathedral  of  Verona. 


APPENDIX  TO    CHAPTER    VIIL 


173 


4.  IIOSEA. 

Scroll  :— VENIT 
EET  RE 
VERTA 
MURAD^ 
DOMINU 
QVIA 
IPSE  CE 
PITET 
SANA 


OSIA 
PHA 


'*  Veuite  ct  revertamur  ad  dominum 
quia  ipse  cepit  et  sana  (bit  nos)." 

"  Come  and  let  us  return  unto  the 
Lord,  for  he  has  torn  and  he  will  heal 
us." 

Hosea  vi.  1 . 


Then  turning  around  and  facing  the  altar,  we  have,  to  the 
left  of  the  Christ,  Jeremiah  and  Elijah  ;  to  the  right,  Abraham 
and  Joel. 


5. 

JEREMIAH. 
Scroll  :-HIC  EST 

JEREMIAS 
PHA 

DEVS 

*'Hic  est  Deus  noster  et  non  extima- 

NOSTER 

bitur  alius." 

ET  NON 

'*This   is  our   God,   and  none   other 

EXTIMA 

shall  be  feared. " 

BITUR 

ALIVS 

6. 

ELIJAH, 

ELIA 
PHA 

Scroll:— DOMIN 

**  Domine  si(c)  conversus  avenit  pop- 

ESICO 

ulus  tuus." 

NUER 

"Lord,   thus    are    thy    people    come 

sus 

against  thee." 

AVEN 

This  is  not  biblical.     It  is  noticeable 

ITPO 

that  Elijah,  unlike  the  other  prophets. 

PVLVS 

who  look  at  the  spectator,  is  turning  to 

TV 

the  Christ,  whom  he  addresses. 

VS 

7. 

ABRAHAM, 
Scroll:— VISITA 

ABRAN 
PiHA. 

VITDO 

"Visitavit    (autem)    dominus    Raram 

MINUS 

sicut-  promiserat. " 

SARAM 

'*The  Lord  visited  Sai    i.                    i 

SICUT 

said." 

PROMI 

(                   ; . 

SERAT 

174 


ST,  MARK*S  REST, 


8.  JOEL. 

Scroll :— SUPER 

SERVO(S) 

MEOSET 

SUPBRA 

NCILAS 

ERUNEA 

MDES 

PVMEO 


JOEL 
PHA 

"  Super  servos  meos  efc  super  ancillas 
eff undam  de  spiritu  meo. "  ^ 

"Upon  my  men  servants  and  hand- 
maids will  I  pour  out  (of)  mj  spirit." 
Joel  ii.  29. 


Then,  still  facing  the  altar,  there  are  on  the  wall  to  the  right 
David  and  Solomon  ;  on  that  to  the  left,  above  the  Baptism  of 
Christ,  Obadiah  and  Jonah. 


9.  DAVID, 

DAVID 

PHA 

Scroll:— FILIUS 

MEV.E 

* '  Filius  mens  es  tu,  ego  hodie  genui 

STU.E 

te." 

GO.H 

*'  Thou  art  my  son,  this  day  have  I  be- 

ODIB 

gotten  thee.'' 

GEN 

Psalm  ii.  7. 

UI.T 

E 

10.  SOLOMON, 

SALOMON 

PHA 

Scroll :— QVESI 

VI.  ILL  V 

M.ETNO 

'^Qugesivi  ilium  et  non  inveni-inven- 

NINVEN 

erunt  in  me  vigiles  qui  custodiunt  civi- 

I.IUENE 

tatem." 

RUT.  IN 

*'I  sought  him,  but  I  found  him  not. 

ME.VIGI 

The  watchmen  that  go  about  the  city 

LE.QVI 

found  (or  'came  upon')  me." 

CUTO 

Song  of  Solomon,  iii.  2,  3. 

I)IUT 

CIUI 

TA 

TEM 

^  The  mosaic  has  apparently  *'  erundam"  for  **  effundam,''  possibly  a 
restorer's  error.  The  Vulgate  has  "spiritum  neum,"  for  "de  spiritu 
meo." 


APPENDIX  TO    CHAPTER    VIII. 


175 


11.   OBADIAH. 

ABDIAS 

PHA 

Scroll:— ECCB 

PARV 

**  Ecce   parvulum   dedit   te   in   gen- 

ULVM 

tibus." 

DEDI    ^ 

'*  Behold   he    has   made   thee   small 

TTE 

among  the  heathen." 

INGE 

Obadiah  2. 

NTI 

(Vulgate   has  "  dedi :  "    and   so  has 

BV 

S 

our  Bible  "I  have.") 

12.  JONAH. 

JONAS 

PHA 

Scroll :— CLAMA 

'*Clamavi  ad  dominum  et  exaudivit 

VIADD 

me  de  tribulatione  mea." 

OMINU 

"I  cried  by  reason   of  my  affliction 

MEEX 

to  the  Lord,  and  he  heard  me." 

AUDI 

Jonah  ii.  2. 

VITME 

DETR 

IBULA 

>^TIO 

%N 

IX.  Christ  and  the  Apostles.  (See  ante,  p.  67.  §  8.) 
Passing  now  to  under  the  central  dome,  Christ  is  again  seen 
<  nthroned  in  the  midst,  no  longer,  however,  of  the  prophets, 
but  of  his  own  disciples.  He  is  no  longer  the  Messiah,  but 
the  risen  Christ.  He  wears  gold  and  red,  the  emblems  of 
royalty  ;  his  right  hand  is  raised  in  blessing  ;  his  left  holds 
tlie  resurrection  banner  and  a  scroll.  The  marks  of  the  nails 
re  visible  in  the  hands  and  feet  here  only  ;  they  are  not  to 
be  seen,  of  course,  in  the  previous  vaulting,  nor  are  they  in 
the  third  or  altar  dome  whore  he  sits  enthroned  triumpliant 
as  the  Heavenly  King. 


176  ST,  MARK'S  REST, 

Scroll:— EVNTES 
INMVDV 
UNIVES 

VM.  PRE  ''Euntes  in  mundum  universum 

DICHAT  prsedicate  evaiigelium  omni  creaturse. 

EEVAN  Qui  crediderit  et  baptizatu(s  fuerit  sal- 

GELIV  vus  erit)." 

MOMIG  ^'Go    ye    into    all    tlie  world,   and 

REATU  preach   the  Gospel   to  every  creature. 

REQI  He  that  believeth  and  is  baptized  shall 

CREDI  be  saved." 

DERI  St.  Mark  xvi.  15,  16, 

TEBA 
PTIS 
ATU 


Below,  right  round  the  dome,  are  the  twelve  Apostles,  bap- 
tizing each  in  the  country  with  which  his  ministry  is  actually 
or  by  tradition  most  associated.  -  A  list  of  them  has  been  al- 
ready given  (ante,  p.  67,  §  8),  with  their  countries,  except  that 
of  St.  Bartholomew,  which  is  there  noted  as  "  indecipherable." 
It  is,  however,  legible  as  India. 

Each  Apostle  is  the  centre  of  a  similar  group,  consisting  of 
the  Apostle  himself,  his  convert,  in  the  moment  of  baptism, 
and  a  third  figure  whose  position  is  doubtful.  He  may  bo 
awaiting  baptism,  already  baptized,  or  merely  an  attendant  : 
in  the  group  of  St.  James  the  Less,  he  holds  a  towel ;  in  that 
of  St.  Thomas,  a  cross  ;  and  in  every  case  he  w^ears  the  cos- 
tume of  the  country  where  the  baptism  is  taking  place.  Thus, 
to  take  the  most  striking  instances,  St.  Philip's  Phrygian  has 
the  red  Phrygian  cap  ;  St.  Peter's  Eoman  is  a  Koman  sol- 
dier ;  the  Indians  of  St.  Thomas  and  St.  Bai-tholomew  are  (ex- 
cept for  some  slight  variety  of  colour)  both  dressed  alike,  and 
wear  turbans.  Behind  the  figures  is  in  each  group  a  build- 
ing, also  characteristic  architecturally  of  the  given  country. 
In  two  instances  there  is  seen  a  tree  growing  out  of  this 
building,  namely,  in  the  case  of  Palestine  and  in  that  of 
Achaia  ;  but  whether  or  no  with  any  special  meaning  or  al- 
lusion may  be  doubtful. 


APPENDIX  TO    CHAPTER  VIII.  177 

The  inscriptions  are  as  follows  (see  ante,  p.  67) : 
SCS  lOHES  EVG  BAPTIZA       .     I  EFESO 


S.  lACOB  MINOR 

S.  PHVLIP 

S.  MATHEV       . 

S.  SIMEON 

S.  TOMAS 

S.  ANDRE 

S.  PETRV 

S.  BARTOLOMEV 

S.  TADEV 

S.   MATIAS 

SCS  MARCTS  EVS 


I JUDEA 

I  FRIGIA 

I  ETHIOPIA 

I  EGIPTV 

IN  INDIA 

I  ACHAIA 

IN  ROMA 

I  INDIA 

I  MESOPOTAMIA 

I  PALESTIN 

I  ALESANDRIA 


In  this  list,  most  careful  reference  is  made,  as  has  been 
said,  to  the  various  traditions  concerning  the  places  of  each 
Apostle's  special  ministry,  the  main  tradition  being  always 
followed  in  cases  of  doubt.  Thus  St.  John  was  bishop  of 
Ephesus  ;  St.  James  the  Less  bishop  of  Jerusalem,  where  he 
received  St.  Paul,  and  introduced  him  to  the  Church  ;  St. 
Philip  labored  in  Phrygia,  and  is  said  to  have  died  at  Hiera- 
polis  ;  St.  Matthew  chiefly  in  Ethiopia  ;  St.  Simeon  in  Egypt ; 
and  St.  Thomas  (though  this  may  be  by  confusion  with  an- 
other Thomas)  is  said  to  have  preached  in  India  and  founded 
the  Church  at  Malabar,  where  his  tomb  is  shown,  and  ^'  Chris- 
tians of  St.  Thomas"  is  still  a  name  for  the  Church.  So, 
again,  St.'  Andrew  preached  in  Achaia,  and  was  there  crucified 
at  Patrae  ;  the  connection  of  St.  Peter  with  Rome  needs  no 
comment ;  both  Jerome  and  Eusebius  assign  India  to  St. 
Bartholomew ;  St.  Thaddseus  or  Jude  preached  in  Syria  and 
Arabia,  and  died  at  Eddessa  ;  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the 
ministry  of  St.  Matias  were  spent  in  Palestine  ;  and  lastly,  St. 
Mark  is  reported  to  have  been  sent  by  St.  Peter  to  Egypt,  and 
tli'Tc  founded  the  Church  at  Alexandria. 

\.  Christ  and  the  Angei^s. 

W^e  pass  lastly  to  the  altar-dome,  already  partly  desciibed 
in  the  "  Requiem  "  chapter  of  this  book  (p.  68,  §  9). 

In  the  centre  is  Chiist  triumphant,  enthroned  on  the  stars, 
with  the  letters  IC  XC  once  more  on  either  side  of  him.     lu 


178  ST.  MARirS  REST. 

the  circle  with  him  are  two  angels,  whose  wings  veil  all  but 
their  faces  ;  round  it  are  nine  other  angels,  ruby-coloured  for 
love,  and  bearing  flaming  torches.  *'  He  maketh  his  angels 
spirits,  and  his  ministers  a  flaming  fire." 

Lower  down  round  the  dome  are  the  "  angels  and  arch- 
angels and  all  the  company  of  heaven,"  w^ho  "  laud  and  mag- 
nify His  glorious  name."  These  heavenly  agencies  are  divided 
into  three  hierarchies,  each  of  three  choirs,  and  these  nine 
choirs  are  given  round  this  vault. 

Hierarchy  I.     .     ,     .     Serapliim,  Clierubim,  Thrones. 
Hierarchy  11.  ,     .     .     Dominations,  Virtues,  Powers. 
Hierarchy  III.       .     .     Princedoms,  Archangels,  Angels. 

"  The  first  three  choirs  receive  their  glory  immediately  from 
God,  and  transmit  it  to  the  second  ;  the  second  illuminate 
the  third  ;  the  third  are  placed  in  relation  to  the  created 
universe  and  man.  The  first  hierarchy  are  as  councillors ;  the 
second  as  governors  ;  the  third  as  ministers.  The  Seraphim 
are  absorbed  in  perpetual  love  and  adoration  immediately 
round  the  throne  of  God  ;  the  Cherubim  know  and  worship  ; 
the  Thrones  sustain  the  seat  of  the  Most  High.  The  Domi- 
nations, Virtues,  Powers,  are  the  regents  of  the  stars  and  ele- 
ments. The  last  three  orders — Princedoms,  Archangels,  and 
Angels — are  the  protectors  of  the  great  monarchies  on  earth, 
and  the  executors  of  the  will  of  God  throughout  the  universe."  ^ 
The  visitor  can  see  for  himself  how  accurately  this  state- 
ment is  borne  out  by  the  mosaics  of  the  altar-dome.  Imme- 
diately over  the  altar,  and  nearest  therefore  to  the  presence 
of  God,  is  the  Cherubim,  "  the  Lord  of  those  that  know,"  with 
the  words  "fulness  of  knowledge,"  "plenitudo  scientise,"  on 
his  heart  ;  to  the  left  is  the  Seraphim  ;  to  the  right  the 
Thrones,  "  sustaining  the  seat  of  the  Most  High."  Further 
to  the  right  come  the  Dominations — an  armed  angel,  holding 
in  one  liand  a  balance,  in  the  other  a  spear.  Li  one  scale  of 
the  balance  is  a  man,  in  the  other  the  book  of  the  law ;  and 
this  latter  scale  is  being  just  snatched  at  by  a  winged  demon, 
who,  grovelling  on  the  ground,  turns  round  to  meet  the  spear 
^  Mrs.  Jameson's  '•  Legendary  Art,"  p.  45. 


APPENDIX  TO   CHAPTER  VIIL  179 

the  angel.  Opposite  the  Dominations  are  the  Princedoms 
tu  PrincipaHties,  another  armed  angel,  wearing  a  helmet  and 
calmly  seated  among  the  stars;  and  the  Powers  ("potes- 
tates  ")  with  a  black  devil  chained  at  his  feet.  The  Virtues 
come  next,  with  a  skeleton  in  a  grave  below,  and  at  the  back 
a  pillar  of  fire  ;  and,  lastly,  the  Angels  and  Archangels,  ''  the 
executors  of  the  will  of  God  throughout  the  universe,"  are 
seen  nearest  to  the  gospel-dome,  standing  above  a  rocky  cave, 
in  which  are  three  figures.  They  appear  to  have  various 
functions  in  the  resurrection  ;  the  angel  holds  out  a  swathed 
man  to  the  archangel,  who  holds  a  man  (perhaps  the  same 
man),  from  whom  the  grave-clothes  are  falling.  Between 
them  they  thus  complete  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

It  remains  only  for  the  visitor  to  observe,  before  leaving  the 
chapel,  the  manner  in  which  its  different  parts  are  related  to 
each  other.  Upon  the  arch  at  the  entrance  to  the  gospel- 
dome  are  '  the  Four  Evangelists  ;  on  that  which  prefaces  the 
altar-dome,  with  its  display  of  heavenly  triumph,  are  four 
saints  "militant  here  on  earth."  But  it  is  the  domes  them- 
selves whose  meaning  is  most  evidently  connected.  In  all, 
the  same  Figure  is  seen  in  the  centre,  surrounded  in  the  first 
by  the  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament,  in  the  second  by  the 
Apostles,  in  the  third  by  the  heavenly  choirs,  the  three  to- 
gether thus  proclaiming  the  promise,  the  ministry,  and  the 
triumph  of  the  prophesied,  crucified  and  glorified  Christ. 

SANCTUS,  SANCTUS,  SANCTUS, 

DOMINUS,  DEUS,  OMNIPOTENS, 

QUI  ERAT,  QUI  EST,  ET  QUI  VENTURUS  EST. 

Rev.  iv.  8. 


INDEX. 


Abraham,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  mosaic,  173. 

Adams'  *'  Venice  Past  and  Present,"  quoted,  20  n. 

Adder  coiled,  symbolical  of  eternity,  144. 

Age,  feelings  of  old,  125. 

Alexis,  Emperor,  and  Venice,  56. 

Altinum,  Bishop  of,  founds  early  Venetian  churches,  52. 

Anderson,  J.  R.,  on  Carpaccio,  1  S.  pref.  ;  St.  George,  1  S.  96  ;  2  S. 

128  ;  St.  Jerome,  1  S.  104,  seq. 
Angelico,  liis  religion  sincere,  pref.,  3. 
Angels,  the  hierarchies  of,  68,  178 ;  sculpture  of,  39. 
Animals,  place  of,  in  European  Chivalry,  8  ;  Venetian  love  of,  53. 
Apostles,  baptizing  (St.  Mark's  Baptistery),  67  seq.,  176  seq. 

'*        scenes  of  their  ministry,  176. 
Arabesques,  of  Carpaccio,  1  S. ,  99. 
Achitecture,  an  '  order '  of,  15. 
Art,  great,  combines  grace  and  fitness,  15. 
**     always  instinctive,  pref.  3. 
"     depends  on  national  sympathy,  pref.  3. 
''     as  material  of  history,  pref.  4  seq. 
*'     the  faithful  witness,  pref.  3. 
Ascalon,  not  attacked  by  Venice,  10. 
Ascension,  mosaic  of  the,  St.  Mark's,  87. 
Assisi,  Giotto's  cliapel  at,  1  S.  111. 
Assyria,  gods  of,  83. 
Athena,  70. 
Athens  and  Ion,  61. 
Author,  the — 

diary  quoted  on  Carpaccio's  at  Milan  (Sept.  6,  1876),  1  S.  114. 
drawings  of  St.  George's  viper  (1872),  1  S.  97. 
"       of  Carpaccio's  parrot,  1  S.,  98. 
**       earlie.st,  of  St.  Mark's,  62. 
errors  of  his  early  teaching,  48. 

feelings  of,  in  advancing  years,  not  disabled  but  enabled,  2  S.  125. 
knowledge  of  Greek  myths,  62  n. 
plan  for  collecting  records  of  St.  Mark's,  87  n. 
protestantism  of  (see  *'  religion  "). 
religion  and  early  religious  teaching,  21,  62-63. 

*'         its  effect  on  his  early  work  in  Venice,  48. 
teaching  of,  not  a  discoverer,  2  S.  126,  127. 

**         abhors  doctrine  for  proof,  system  for  usefulness,  2  S.  126. 
"        a  "true  master,"  ib. 


182 


INDEX. 


teaching  his  disciples  not  ''Buskinians,"  but  free,  126. 
books  of,  referred  to — 

Ariadne  Florentina,  p.  (203)  70. 
Examples  of  Venetian  Architecture,  71. 
Fors  Clavigera,  purchasable  in  Venice,  36  n. 
*'  '*  iii.  Feb.  (on  St.  George),  36  n. 

''  '*  iv.,  p.  125  ('Punch'),  60  n. 

"  **  vi.  110,  178-203  (on  Psalm  Ixxvi.),  33. 

*'  "  vii.  75,  gondolier  and  dog,  53. 

**  "  vii.  68,  on  St  Theodore,  24. 

Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret,  pref .  4. 

St.  Mark's  Rest,  delay  in  issue  of  2d  Supplement,  2  S.  155  n. 
"  "     scheme  of  and  plans  for,  iv.,  8  n. 

**  *'     sold  in  Venice,  36  n. 

*'  '*     style  of,  pref.  3. 

**  *'     Supplement  I.,  why  issued,  1  S.  pref.  91,  92u 

Stones  of  Venice,  errors  of,  and  Author's  Protestantism,  64, 
**  "       quoted,  129,  147,  44  n. 

**  *'       republication  of,  planned,  pref.  4. 

**  *'       St.  Mark's,  description  of,  62. 

Baldwin,  king  of  Jerusalem,  9. 

Baptism  of  Christ  (St.  Mark's  mosaic),  164. 

Baptist,  the.  Life  of  (St.  Mark's  mosaic),  159. 

Bari,  William  of,  at  siege  of  Tyre,  12. 

Baruch's  roll,  pref.  3. 

Basilicans,  the  only  order  of  the  Greek  Church,  171. 

Basilisk,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  98. 

Bellini,  Gentile,  picture  of  Venice,  47. 

Bellini,  Gentile,  picture  of  St.  Mark's  fa9ade,  69,  70,  73. 

Bellini  Giovanni,  vaults  of,  69,  70. 

*'  *'  Correr  Museum  (Transfiguration),  1  S.  120  n. 

'^  *'  pictures  by  in  the  Frari,  St.  Zaccaria,  1  S.  117. 

Bewick,  1  S.  117. 
Bible  quoted — 


Genesis  xxi 173 

Numbers  xvi.  13 56 

2  Kings  ii.  12 172 

"       XXV.  7 55 

Proverbs  iii.  17 1  S.  106 

vii.  5, 17 61 

Psalm  ii.  7 174 

''      xlv.8 61 

"      Ixxii.  10.  11 166 

*'      Ixxvi.  (Vulgate^  and  Italian 

versions) 7 

Song  of  Solomon  iii.  2,  3 174 

Isaiah  vii.  14 172 

"       xi.  8 84 

"       xxiii.  2 32 

Jeremiah  xvii.  9 49 

Ezekiel  i .    79  seq. 

xi.  16, 19,  22 80 

Hosea  vi.  1 173 

Joel  ii.  29 174 

Obadiah2 175 

Jonah  ii.  2 175 


Zephaniah  iii.  8 172 

St.  Matthew  ii.  2 166 

ii.  16 167 

iii.  16,  17 165 

v.8-11 86 

X.  22 85 

St.  Mark  vi.  21,  26 165 

'*        xvi.  15,  16 176 

St.  Lukei.  9,  11 160 

21-22 160 

"  63 ih. 

80 162 

xiv.  33 1  S.  100 

xix.8 1  S.lOl 

xix.  17 1  S.  102 

St.  John  i.  25 163 

*'       i.  29 159 

"       xix.  26-27 ib. 

Romans  v.  12 1  S.  106 

Galatians  ii.  20 84 

1  Thess.  ii.  18 2  S.  153 

Rev.iv.S &3,  179 


Birds,  chased  by  N'enetiau  boys,  54 ;  legend  of,  and  churches  oi    \  uu- 

ice,  8. 
Bolton  Abbey,  30. 
Bribery,  60. 

Brides  of  Venice,  1  S.  95. 
British  Museum,  Cotton  MS.,  pref.  3. 
Buckle's  civilization,  2(5. 
Byzantine  art,  mytliical,  74, 

''  "St.  Mark's  typical  of,  65. 

Byzantium  conquered  by  Venice,  65. 

Camerlenghi,  treasurers  of  Venice,  26. 

Cape  of  Good  Hope,  discovery  of,  ruins  Venice,  27. 

Capitals,  laws  of  their  treatment,  17,  19 

*'         of  twelfth  to  fourteenth  centuries,  17,  20. 
Cardinals,  Carpaccio's  satire  on,  1  S.  118. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  R.'s  master,  1  S.  123. 

*'  "  Early  Kings  of  Norway  "  quoted,  56  n. 

*'  Sterling,  Life  of,  1  S.  103  ;  and  of  Werner,  103. 

Carpaccio:  (1)  General  Characteristics  of  his  Art,  1  S.  113  ;  Its  Charac- 
teristics, 115  ;  (2)  Details  of  his  pictures ;  (3j  Particular 
pictures. 

(1 )    General  Characteristics  of  his  Art : — 
composition  of,  1  S.  99. 

details  have  important  meanings  with,  1.  S.  107. 
and  Luini,  1  S.  116 

religion,  as  animatincc  the  present  world,  1  S.  122  n. 
satire  of,  1  S.  118,  121. 

sense  of  humour,  and  power  of  seriousness,  1  S.  102. 
simplicity,  strength,  and  joy,  1  S.  96-97. 
study  of,  feelings  requisite  to  the,  1  S.  113. 
symbolism,  1  S.  121. 

- )   Details  of  his  Pictures : — 

arabesques  (S.  Tryphonius),  i.  S.  99. 

dogs,  i.  S.  99. 

parrot,  i.  S.  99. 

signatures  of,  lovely,  1.  S.  106. 

vaults  of,  69,  70. 

(3)   Partkular  Pictures  of: — 

Agony  in  the  Garden,  i.  S.  100. 

St.  George  and  Dragon  series,  24;   1  S.-98  seq.,  108  ;   2  S.   138 

seq. 
St.  Jerome,  1  S.  104,  106,  108. 
St.  Mary  and  Elizabeth  (Correr  Museum),  1  S.  119. 
St.  Matthew,  calling  of  (St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni),  1  S.  100. 
St.  Stephen  (Brera  Gallery,  Milan),  1  S.  114. 
St.  Tryphonius  (St.  Giorgio  dei  Scliiavoni),  1  S.  99. 
St.  Ursula  series  (Accademia,  Venice),  1  S.  119,  121. 
Venetian  ladies  and  their  pets  (Correr  MnstMiinV  in  what  sense 

the  best  existing  picture,  1  S.  116. 
Virgin  (Brera  Gallery,  Milan\  1  S.  114. 
youthful  sketches  by,  St.  Alvise,  i.  S.  111. 


184  INDEX, 

Carpets,  Eastern,  1  S.  96. 

Catholicism,  mediaeval,  as  shown  by  Carpaccio,  1  S.  120. 

Ceilings  painted,  Venice,  1  S.  111. 

Cephalonia,  taken  by  Venice,  1  S.  99. 

Cerberus,  Dante's,  24. 

Charity,  St,  Mark's  mosaic,  85. 

Cheese,  lessons  in  capital  carving,  by  use  of,  18  seq. 

Cherubim,  the  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  66. 

Chivalry,  places  of  animals  in,  24. 

*'        of  Venice  and  the  West,  a.d.  1100,  56. 
Chomley,  Countess  Isabel,  legend  translated  by,  52  n. 
Christ  and  the  Angels,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  163. 

*'      and  the  Apostles,         *'  *'  67. 

*'      baptism  of,  ''  ''  164. 

*'      infancy  of,  *'  "  166. 

"      and  the  Prophets,        **  **  172. 

'  *      modern  lives  of,  84. 

*'  ''saves  the  lost,''  1  S.  101. 
Christianity,  development  of,  50. 
Churches  of  Venice,  legend  of  their  foundation,  52. 

'*  '*       guide  to  points  of  compass  in,  35  n. 

See  'Venice,'  and  under  names  of  particular  churches,  28. 
Churchyards,  53. 
Cimabue,  68. 

Classical  learning  and  Venice,  46. 
Clermont-Ganneau  on  St.  George,  S.  127. 
Cockneyism,  9,  64,  86,  99. 

Coinage,  leathern  of  Doge  Domenico,  Michiel,  8. 
Colour,  Venetian  feeling  for,  58. 

Corner,  Flaminio,  on  St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni,  1  S.  93. 
Correr  Museum,  woodcut  maps  of  Venice  (1480)  in,  21. 

"  "  Carpaccio's  "Venetian  Ladies,"  1  S.  117. 

Cotton  MS.,  British  Museum,  pref.  vi.  51. 
Creusa  (Euripides'  "  Ion  "),  62  n. 
Croiset's  office  of  the  B.  V.  M.,  22. 
Crowe  and  Cavalcasella,  1  S.  105,  112,  113. 
Crucifixion,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  98. 
Crusades,  Venice  and  the,  44. 
Customs,  blinding  of  deposed  Doges,  55. 

'*       pillage  of  palace  on  election  of  Doge,  59  n. 
Cybele,  temple  of,  169. 

Dalmatia,  attacked  by  Byzantium,  13. 

Damascus,  and  siege  of  Tyre,  12,  10. 

Dandolo,  Doge  Andrea,  chronicle  of,  11,  12,  65  n. 

"  *'  legend  of  Venetian  Churches,  51,  52. 

'*.  '*  his  tomb,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  52  n. 

*'         Henry,  70;  adorns  church  of  St.  James  of  the  Bialta^  JS8. 
Dante's  grasp  of  theology,  24. 

**        Cerberus  (Canto  vi.),  24. 
Darwinism,  17,  1  S.  99. 
Dates,  recollection  of,  25,  43. 
David,  piety  and  soldiership  of,  60. 


jMvid,  mosaic  of,  ?St.  Mark  si>aj)iistery,  157. 

"  '*     ,  eastern  dome.  74. 

Death,  commonplace  about  blessedness  of,  1  S.  106. 
Decoration,  not  '  a  superticial  merit,'  19. 
De  Hooghe,  chiaroscuro  of,  1  S.  117. 
Delphi,  oracle  of,  pref.  4 
Dogs,  Carpaccio's,  St.  George's,  1  S.  99. 

''  St.  Jerome's,  24,  1  S.  104. 

Doges,  blinding  of  live  deposed,  421-1100,  55. 
**      election  of  (Doge  Selvo),  58  seq. 

"      JSee  under  Domenico  Michiel,  St.  Pietro  Urseolo,  Selva 
Doge's  palace,  pillage  of,  on  election  of  Doge,  59,  60  n. 
Domenico,  Michiel,  Doge,  13. 

*'  *'         and  conquest  of  Tyre,  8  seq. 

*'  *'        dismantles  his  ships,  12  n. 

*'  *'         leathern  coinage  of,  12. 

**  "        seizes  Egean  isles  and  Cephalonia,  13. 

*'  "        closing  years  and  death,  14. 

'*  *'        tomb  of  (San  Giorgio  Maggiore),  14. 

Doubt,  religious  feeling  of,  50  seq. 
Dragon,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  101,  2  S.  132. 
Drapery,  good  and  bad,  37. 
Ducal  Palace,  see  'Venice — Ducal  Palace,'  16. 
Dumas,  1  S.  112. 

Diirer's  engraving  of  St.  Mark^s  Lion,  20. 
Durham  Cathedral,  20. 


Edinburgh,  Prince's  street,  asphalted,  31  n. 
Egean  islands,  seized  by  Venice,  13. 
Egypt,  dragon  of,  23,  26. 

*'       flight  into,  167. 
Egypt,  gods  of,  121. 

**       and  siege  of  Tyre,  11,  12. 
Eliab,  sons  of,  55.  ♦ 

Elijah,  mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  173.; 
Emerson  referred  to,  35. 
England,  abbeys  of,  their  quiet  peace,  1  S.  96. 

**         classical  architecture  of,  40. 

**         commerce,  36,  64. 

**  *'  and  greed  of  money,  8. 

''         religion  of,  1200-1400,  50. 
Euripides'  '  Ion '  quoted,  61  n. 
Europe,  course  of  history,  40. 
Evangelical  doctrine  of  salvation,  1  S.  101. 
Evangel  ion  and  prophecy,  78. 
Evangelists,  the,  beasts  of  the,  83. 

'♦  '*      (St.  Mark's  mosaics),  82,  164 

gospels  of,  IS.  100. 
''  sculpture  of  (St.  Mark's),  35. 

Executions,  between  Piazzetta  pillan,  17. 
Eyes,  putting  out  the,  55. 
Ezekiel's  vision,  78. 


loo  IjSDEX, 

Faitli  and  reason,  50. 

Fathers,  the  Greeks  and  Latin,  168  seq. 

Fawn  in  Carpaccio's  *  Virgin,'  Brera,  Milan,  1  S.  115. 

Fishing  in  early  Venice,  51. 

Florence,  sacred  pictures  of,  1  S.  122. 

**         Spezieria  of  S.  M.  Novella,  61. 
Forks,  thought  a  luxury,  61. 
'  Fors  '  and  the  author,  54. 

"        ordering  of  events  by,  S.  127. 
Foscarini,  on  Doge  Selvo's  election,  59  n. 
France,  religion  of,  1150-1350,  50. 

Gabriel,  Archangel,  St.  Mark's  bas-reliefs,  34, 

Geryon,  1  S.  97. 

Gesta  Dei,  quoted,  10,  11  n. 

Giotto's  chapel  at  Assisi,  1  S.  111. 

Giocondo,  Fra,  makes  designs  for  Venice  after  1513  fire,  28. 

Giorgione's  frescoes,  26  ;  arrangement  of  masses,  1  S.  109, 

Giustina,  church  to  S.,  founded,  53. 

Gordon,  Eev.  O.,  on  Ps.  Ixxxvi.,  23. 

Goschen,  Mr.,  1  S.  101. 

Gothic,  foilage,  origin  of  Venetian,  43. 

Greek  acanthus,  71. 

*'      art,  but  one  school  of,  65. 

*'        "its  aim,  first  instruction,  then  beauty,  66. 

*'      capitals,  18. 

*'      harpy,  68. 

*'      myths  (Euripides  and  Pindar),  61  n. 

*'      temple  of  the  Dew,  60. 

*'      Thronos  on  St.  Mark's,  35. 

"•      work  on  St.  Marks,  42,  43,  61,  65. 
Guiscard,  and  Doge  Selvo,  57  seq. 

*'         "  the  soldier  par  excellence  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  60. 
Gunpowder,  51. 

Heraclea,  Venetian  villas  at,  51. 

Hercules,  42  ;  labours  of,  St.  Mark's  bas-relief,  33. 

Herod  and  St.  John  Baptist,  67,  165  ;  and  the  wise  men,  166. 

Herodias,  type  of  evil  womanhood,  69. 

Historians,  sectarianism  of,  48. 

History,  the  course  of  European,  46. 

"         transitional  period  of,  32, 

*'        the  materials  of,  a  nation's  acts,  words,  and  art,  pref.  p.  4. 

"         how  to  read,  50. 
Holbein's  jewel-painting,  1  S.  118. 
Horses  of  St.  Mark,  69,  70. 
Hunt,  William,  31. 

Idleness,  evils  of,  51. 
Infidelity,  signs  of,  in  art,  38. 

'•  modern,  50. 

Innocents,  Holy  (St.  Mark's  Mosaics),  168. 
Inscription  on  St.  James  di  Rialto,  27. 


Inscription  on  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  b4. 

•'  *'  Baptistery,  157-179  passim. 

Inscription  on  tomb  of  Doge  Domenico  AT^-hi<'l,  14. 
Inspiration  and  the  Church,  1  J^.  121. 
Ion  and  Athens,  G5. 
Irish  decoration,  71. 

'•     savagery,  oG. 
Italian  revolution  and  Venice,  13. 

Jameson,  Mrs.  '  Legendary  Art,'  quoted,  178. 
Jeremiah,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  173. 
Jerusalem,  Holy  Sepulchre,  arches  of  the,  71. 

"  Baldwin,  king  of,  at  Venice,  8. 

Johnson,  Dr.,  penance  of,  04 

Jones,  E   Burne,  helps  R.  re  St.  Marks  mosaics,  87. 
Jordan,  river  god  of  the,  164. 

Kensington  schools,  1  S.  99. 
Knight,  a,  of  the  15th  century,  37. 

Landseer,  Sir  E.,  7. 

Latrator  Anubis,  15  seq.;  meaning  of,  22. 

Legenda  Aurea,  the,  on  St.  George,  2  S.  149. 

Legend  of  foundation  of  Venetian  churches,  52. 

Leucothea,  54. 

Lindsay,  Lord,  *  Christian  Art '  of,  63. 

Lion,  St.  Jerome's,  24. 

"     St.  Mark's,  Venice  (see  St.  Mark's). 
London,  fire  of,  7  ;  the  Monument,  8 ;  Nelson  column,  8. 
Longhena's  tomb  of  Doge  Dom.  Michiel,  14. 
Lord's  Prayer,  the,  and  mediaeval  chivalry,  49. 
Lorenzi,  M.,  helps  R.,  50  n. 
Lotteries  in  old  and  new  Venice,  17  n. 
Luini  and  Carpaccio,  1  S.  114,  115,  116. 
Luxury,  mediaeval,  how  symbolized,  1  S.  118. 

**         of  Venice,  and  her  fate,  44. 
Lydda,  church  of  St.  George  at,  2  S.  132. 

Madonna  on  St.  James  di  Rialto,  28,  29. 

Mantegna's  '' Transfiguration,"  Correr  Museum,  1  S.  119. 

**  St.  Sebastian,  1  S.  121. 

Mariegola,  of  St.  Theodore,  21,  24. 
Mazorbo,  54. 
Mem  11  on,  35. 
Merlin,  60. 
M.  Angelo,  pref.  4. 

Milan,  Monasterio  Maggiore,  Luini's  St.  Stephen,    1  S.  114. 
Milan,  Brera  Gallery,  Carpaccio's  in,  1  S.  114. 
Modesty,  St.  Mark's  mosaic,  95. 

Monasticism,  as  explained  by  Carpaccio's  St.  Jerome,  1  S,  86,  105,  lOG. 
Mosaics,  of  St   Mark  s  (see  under  *' Venice— St.  Mark's"),  157. 
Muratori'?  orlition  of  Sanuto,  8  n. 
Murray.  S.  102,  1  S.  115,  1  S.  119. 


1««  INDEX. 

Murra}',  Jolm,  Guide  to  Venice,  on  Piazzetta  pillars,  7. 

"  "  '*  St.  James  di  Rialto,  29,  30. 

"  ''  St.  Mark's  Lion,  78. 

"  "      Sketches  of  Venetian  History,  8. 

Napoleon  I.,  8. 

Natalis  Regia,  rebuilds  St.  James  di  Rialto,  1531,  29. 

Nelson  column,  8. 

Nicholas  of  the  Barterers,  sets  up  Piazzetta  pillars,  17. 

Norman  architecture,  savagery  of,  18. 

Northumbrian  architecture,  clumsy  work  in,  18. 

Oath  of  Venetian  magistrates  at  Tyre,  13. 

Olat-,    blinds  King  R^rik,  56  n. 

Oxford  schools,  author's  drawings  at,  1  S.  96,  97. 

Pall  Mall,  51. 

Palladio,  14. 

Palm  trees,  in  Carpaccio's  St.  George,  meaning  of,  2  8.  148. 

Paris,  Vendome  column,  7. 

Parliament,  English,  party  politics,  8. 

Parrot,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  97. 

Parthenon  bas-reliefs,  35. 

Perfumes,  use  of,  61  ;  manufacture  of  by  Florentine  monks,  ^6. 

Perseus  and  St.  George,  2  S.  133. 

Persia  and  St.  George,  2  S.  134. 

Perugia,  canopy  at,  69. 

Perugino,  1  S.  102. 

Petroleum,  50. 

Piazzetta  pillars  (see  under  "Venice — Piazzetta  pillars''),  7. 

Pindar,  and  Greek  myths,  61  n. 

Political  Economy,  50. 

Practice  with  lingers  teaches  eyes,  18. 

Prayer  Book,  quoted,  83. 

Printing,  discovery  of,  50 ;  and  Venice,  41. 

Progress,  modern,  in  Venice,  30 ;  and  inventions,  46. 

Prophets,  mosaics  of,  St.  Mark's  altar- dome,  81  ;  baptistery,  168. 

Proportion  and  propriety,  distinct,  15. 

Protestantism,  '  private  judgment,'  21,  22,  62,  63,  1  S.  103,  120. 

'  Punch,'  on  Bishop  Wilberforce,  60;  March  15,  1879,  64. 

Purple,  Byzantine,  82. 

Rahab,  meaning  of  in  Ps.  Ixxxvi.,  23. 

Raphael,  teaching  of  in  art,  39  (see  "  S.  Raphael"). 

Reason  and  Faith,  50. 

'  Red  and  White  Clouds,'  chap.  vi. 

Religion,  of  early  Christian  chivalry,  49. 

' '        and  doubt,  47  seq. 

"        stage  between  faith  and  reason,  50. 

*'        of  Venice,  40  seq.  ;  the  keynote  (with  art)  of  her  history,  41. 
Renaissance,  and  revival  of  learning,  46. 
Restoration,  evil  of,  illustrated,  70. 
Rialto,  meaning  of,  30,  31. 


INDEX.  1S9 

i;i ,    i   .  named  from  colour  or  clearness,  rarely  from  depth,  30. 

liomaii  Empire  and  Venice,  43. 

Komanin,  on.  13  ;  on  llialio,  30,  31  ;  ou  Selvo's  election,  59  n. 

Rosamond  and  her  father's  skull,  50. 

Kubens,  1  S.  1U4. 

Ruskin,  Mr.     /Sed  "  Author. " 

Sabra  and  St.  George,  37. 

''  lier  symbolical  meaning   2  S.  151. 
fcaint  Alvise.  Venice,  ceiling  of,  1  S.  111. 

*'  Ambrose,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery.  171. 

*'  Anthony  ''  ''  168. 

*'  Athanasius  **  "  170. 

''  Augustine  "  *'  171. 

**  Basil  *'  ♦*  171. 

*'  Cuthbert's  book,  pref.  3. 

"  Demetrius,  St   Mark's  bas  relief,  42  ;  warrior  saint,  170. 

**  Donato's  body  brought  to  Venice,  14. 

'*  Francis  and  the  birds,  54. 

**  Gabriel,  St.  Marks  bas-relief,  42. 

*'  George,  his  function  and  meaning,  21,  170  ;  2  S.  138. 

*'         ''         history  of,  2  S.  12^^  seq. 

*'         *'         and  the  princess,  legend  quoted,  2  S.  150. 

*'         "         connection  with  Perseus,  and  Persia,  2  S.  134. 

'*         "         horse  oP,  its  colour,  by  Carpaccio  and  Tintoret,  2  S.  138. 

"         "         pictures  of,  Carpaccio's,  23,  1  S.  9(3  seq.,  97. 

*'         «'         Porphyrio,  "  Bird  of  Chastity,"  24. 

'*         "        sculptures  of,  in  Venice,  33,  35,  37,  38,  42. 

*'         "         '*  sheathing  his  sword,"  35. 
shield  of,  burnished,  2  S.  12. 

''  George's  Museum,  Slieffield,  casts  of  St.  Mark's,  70. 

**  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni  {aee  "  Carpaccio,'   and  "  Venice  *'), 

*' Maggiore,  8 

*'  Giovanni  in  Bragola,  church  to,  founded,  57. 

**  e  Paolo,  tombs  in  church  of,  14. 

*'  Giustina,  church  to,  founded,  53. 

*'  Gregory  the  Great,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  171. 

♦'  Nazianzen  *'  **  170. 

*'  Isidore's  body  brought  to  Venice,  14. 

*'  **       (St.  Mark's  mosaic),  158  and  n. 

*'  James  di  Rialto,  history  of,  20  seq  ,  chap.  iii. 

**  "  inscription  on,  28,  87. 

*'  *'  "  discovered  by  author,  76. 

*'  **  interior  of,  28. 

**  Jerome,  no  good  biography  of,  1  S.  104. 

'*         **         Carpaccio's  pictures  of,  1  S.  101  seq.  (lion)  ;  106  (burial) » 
107  (in  Heaven). 

"         "  his  lion  and  dog,  24. 

*'         *•  mosaic  of  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  170. 

*'         '*  teaching  of,  22  ;  1  S.  104. 

*'  John  Chrysostom  (mosaic,  170. 

**  Louis'  part  of  Venice,  1  S.  111. 

**  Maria  Formosa,  church  to,  founded,  52. 


190  INDEX, 

Saint  Mark,  recovery  of  his  body  (mosaic  of),  76. 

'^     Mark's  church,  etc.,  Venice  (see  "Venice,  St.  Mark's")- 
**     Matthew,  calling  of,  1  S.  100 ;  gospel  of,  1  S.  100. 
*'     Mercury,  122. 

"     Nicholas  of  the  Lido,  57  ;  mosaic  of,  167. 
<<     Pietro  Urseolo,  Doge,  169. 
**     Raphael,  church  of,  founded,  52. 
**     Stephen,  Carpaccio's,  Brera,  Milan,  1  S.  114. 
**     Theodore,  7. 

*'  '*  his  body  at  Venice,  1450,  24. 

"  *'  "the  chair  seller,"  33,  iv.  ;  meaning  of,  42. 

"  '*  church  to,  on  site  of  St.  Mark's,  83. 

*'  **  mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's,  170. 

*'  *'  patron  of  Venice,  21. 

*'  **  statue  of,  Piazzetta  pillar,  15. 

'*  *'  *'  St.  [Salvador,  39. 

'*  '*  his  teaching,  21,  24. 

**     Tryphonius  and  the  Basilisk,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  99  ;  2  S.  129. 
'*     Zaccaria,  church  of,  founded,  52. 
Salt-works  of  early  Venice,  51. 
Samplers,  English,  1  S.  96. 
Samson  and  Delilah,  61. 
*  Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Sanctus,'  157,  179. 
Sand,  George,  1  S.  103,  112. 
Sansovino,  on  election  of  Doge  Selvo,  58. 

"  rebuilds  at  Venice,  1513,  27. 

Sanuto,  Marin,  2-5. 

Scarpagnino  rebuilds  at  Venice,  1513,  27. 
Scepticism,  modern,  79. 
Science,  modern,  its  effect  on  belief,  48-51. 
Sclavonians  and  Venice,  1  S.  95. 
Scott,  Sir.  W.,  "  Fortunes  of  Nigel,"  its  moral,  17  n. 

*'  "Talisman,"  its  errors,  65. 

Sculpture  above  Ponte  dei  Baratteri,  36. 

"        rise  and  fall  of  Venetian,  chap,  iv.,  37. 
Selvo,  Doge,  history  of,  56  seq.  [iice  St.  George,  sculpture  of), 
'*  mosaics  of  St.  Mark's,  78. 

''         rebuilds  St.  James  di  Bialto,  1073,  28. 
"  wife  of,  Greek,  60. 

•Shadow  on  the  Dial,'  the,  chap.  5. 
Shalts  and  capitals,  relations  of,  15. 
Shakspere,  Hamlet,  48. 

"         King  Lear,  blinding  of  Gloster  in,  55. 
'*  Merchant  of  Venice  (Shy lock),  25. 

"  Midsummer  Nights  Dream,  '  If  I  should  as  lion,'  1  S.  102. 

"  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  (Dogberry),  36. 

**  Romeo  and  Juliet,  'Ask  for  him  to-morrow,'  1  S.  102. 

Sheffield,  author's  plans  for,  11. 
Shells,  in  Carpaccio  s  '  St.  George,*  2  S.  145. 
Ships,  dismantling  of  Venetian,  12. 
Skull,  in  Carpaccio's  'St.  George,' 2  S.  148. 
Smoke  pestilence,  modern,  54. 
Snyders,  1  S.  104. 


IJSDEX.  lyi 

Solomon,  love  of  fine  things,  60. 

St.  Mark's  mosaics,  82,  174. 

Queen  of  Sheba  and,  Carpaccio's,  35,  1  S.  116. 
Surjuw,  feeling  under,  47  seq. 
Spirals.  Greek  and  iS'orthern,  71. 
Spoon,  story  of  child's  love  lor  a  wooden,  76. 
Symbolism,  growth  of,  in  art,  37,  38. 

Tempera,  use  of,  1  S.  117  ;  by  Carpaccio  and  Tintoret,  w. 

Temptation,  the,  mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's,  75. 

Thrones,  of  the  world,  38. 

Theories  of  belief,  47,  48  seq. 

Tiepolo's  ceiling,  St.  Alvise,  1  S.  111. 

Tintoret,  '  miglitiest  of  the  Venetians,'  pref.  4. 

death  of,  and  fall  of  Venice  (1594),  44. 

'  rushing  force  '  of,  1  S.  102. 

studied  Carpaccio,  2  S.  129. 

tempera  used  by,  and  R.'s  praise  of,  1  S.  117. 
Titian,  color  of,  1  S.  117. 
frescoes  of,  26. 
religion  of,  assumed,  pref.  3. 
Trade,  modern,  50. 

Trades  of  Venice,  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  74. 

Tree,  removal  of,  from  before  Accademia,  Venice  (Feb.,  1877),  31. 
Turner,  could  not  beat  Carpaccio  s  paroquet,  1  S.  119. 
Tyre,  burden  of,  chap.  i. 

**     siege  of,  chap,  i.,  p.  7,  10-12  ;  surrender  of,  12, 
* '     oatli  of  Venetian  magistrates  at,  13. 

Upholstery,  modern,  1  S.  112. 

Van  Eyck,  detail  of,  1  S.  117. 

Venice  :  (1)  Her  Character  and  Art  ;  (2)  Her  History  ;   (3)  Architecture, 
Painting,  and  Sculpture  ;  (4)  Modern  Venice. 

(1)  Her  Character  and  her  Art : — 

Her  ambition,  its  objects,  7,  10. 

*'     aristocracy,  its  growth,  46. 

**     art,  the  best  material  for  her  history,  pref.  4. 

*'      "     its  growth  shown,  34  seq.,  89,  41,  75  ;  recapitulated,  43. 
aspect  of  early,  63. 

change  from  Eastern  to  Western  temper,  20. 
character,  love  of  home,  of  animals,  of  colour,  58  seq. 
chivalry  learnt  from  Normans,  48,  45. 
Christianity  of,  learnt  from  Greeks,  43. 
commerce,  24,  26. 
council,  in  deciding  on  war,  9. 
deliberateness  of  action,  56. 
doges,  treatment  of  deposed,  55-8. 
fall  of,  44,  46  ;  and  gambling,  17. 
intellectual  death  of.  41. 
modern  debasement,  42. 
home  lif«  of  early,  53. 


192  INDEX, 

Venice  {continued) — 

people  of,  mosaic  of  doge  and,  77. 

piety  and  covetousness  of,  8. 

religion  of,  1300-1500,  chap,  v.,  43  seq.;  1  S.  pref. 

relics,  at  last  despised  by,  'Zl, 

revival  of  learning  and,  46. 

Rome's  influence  on,  46. 

iindersta^id,  how  to,  21-49. 

(2)  Her  History : — 

progressive,  but  its  periods  distinct,  32. 
four  periods  of,  (a)  formation,  421-1100,  43. 

{h)  establishment,  1100-1301,  43-44. 

[0  meditation,  1301-1520,  44. 

{d)  luxury  and  fall,  1520-1600. 
tells  her  own  story,  33. 
errors  of  her  historians,  32. 
religion  and  arts,  its  keynotes,  44. 
alliance  with  Alexis  against  Guiscard,  57. 
conquers  Byzantium,  13. 
colonies  in  Asia,  13. 
fire  of  1513,  27. 
founded,  421,  25. 
war  with  Guiscard,  57  seq. 
mercenary  army,  27. 
war  with  Saracens,  9  seq.,  10. 
Serrar  del  Consiglio  (period  ii.),  44-47. 
conquers  Tyre,  12. 

(3)  ArcMteciure,  Painting^  and  Sculpture  of: — 

Academy,  Carpaccio's  St.  Ursula,  1  S.  119. 
Camerlenghi  Palace,  26. 
Ducal  Palace  built,  45. 

•  pillars  of  arcade  baseless,  and  why,  15,  16. 

capitals  of  upper  arcade,  16. 

Foscari  Palace,  sunset,  31. 
Gobbo  di  Rialto,  28  n. 
Grand  Canal  at  sunset,  31. 
Jean  d'Acre  pillars,  71. 
Labia,  palace,  40. 
Merceria,  26-36, 
Piazzetta,  pillars  of  the,  7. 

**  "the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  7  ;  and  why,  15. 

"  "       capitals    and    bases  of,  16,  17  (history    of   not 

known). 

*'  "       date  of  (12th  century),  18. 

**  "       famous  and  whv,  7  seq. 

'*  "       history  of,  15,  17. 

■   "  **       match  each  other,  and  how,  16. 

*♦  "       St.  Theodore  and  St.  Mark's  Lion,  on,  20,  21. 

"  "      space  between,  how  used,  17. 

•*  **      steps  of  restored,  16  n. 


INDEX.  i 

Venice  {continued)— 

Ponte  de'  Barrateri,  sculpture  near  the,  36. 
St.  Alvise,  ceiling  of,  1  S.  111. 
St.  Antonin,  campo  di,  1  S.  93. 
St.  Bartholomew's  Square,  26. 
St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni,  24. 

t*  "  foundation  of,  1,  S.  94  ;  S.  1. 

<*  '<  interior  of,  1,  S.   95,  and  see  *^C 

paccio." 

Maggiore,  8,  14,  15. 

St.  James  di  Rialto,  42  seq.;  history  of,  27. 

St.  John  Eleemosynario,  campanile,  28. 

St.  Julian,  36. 

St.  Louis'  Quarter,  1  S.  111. 

St.  Margaret's  Campo,  51. 

St.  Marks  Church,  built,  45. 

'*  t'         baptistery  of,  67  seq. ;  plan  of,  160  ;    mosa 

157  seq. 

*'  *'         campanile,  lotteries  beneath,  17  n. 

"  *'         fa9ade  of,  34. 

«*  ««  *'  temp.  Gentile  Bellini,  69. 

*'  **        horses  of,  69. 

«'  *'         northwest  corner  of,  sculpture  of  apostles, 

**  *'         porches  of,  bas-reliefs  on,  42. 

*♦  "        tomb  of  Doge  A.  Dandolo,  52. 

*<  **        mosaics  of,  82. 

*'  "  *'         designs  of  Veronese,  73. 

*'  **  **         collection  of  records  of,  157. 

**  **  *»         central  archivolt,  bad,  71. 

**  "  *'         baptistery,  67  seq.,  158. 

**  ti       n  (i  their       connection 

meaning,  179. 

"  "  "        central  dome,  74,  101. 

"  "  *'        east  dome,  84. 

*«  "  **         north  transept,  75. 

"  **  **         south  transept,  76. 

**  **        sculptures,  central  archivolt,  70  seq. 

''  ''  "  of  foliage,  70. 

"  *'  "  of  sheep  and  lamb,  northwest 

ner,  38. 

**  ♦*  "  left  of  central  arch,  34. 

. Lion.  78. 

Place,  nowadays,  59. 

St.  Pantaleone,  ceiling,  1  S.  112. 

St.  Pietro  Castello,  cathedral  church  of  Venice,  52. 

St.  Raphael,  cliurch  of,  founded.  52. 

St.  Salvadore,  church  of,  founded,  52  ;  piazza  of,  39. 

(4)  Modern  Venice: — 

church,  and  campo,  53. 
destruction  of  old  by  new,  26,  pre!  6. 
dirt  of,  26. 
hotels  of,  26. 

18 


194  INDEX, 

Venice  {continued) — 
lighting  of,  14. 
lotteries  of,  17  and  n. 
progress  of,  59. 
restaurants  of  10  n. 
sails  of,  10  n. 
steamers  in,  10. 

tree  cut  down  before  Academy  (Feb.  26,  1877),  31. 
Veronese,  P.,  designs  some  of  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  75,  1  S.  98-103. 

**  mischief  done  by,  1  S.  111. 

Virgil,  quoted,  Aen. ,  viii.  698,  23. 
Virgin,  Carpaccio's  Brera  Gallery,  Milan,  1  S.  114. 

"         St.  Mark's  bas-reliefs,  42. 
Virtues,  on  St.  Mark's  central  dome  mosaics,  96, 

*^         and  the  seven  gems,  Carpaccio's  St.  George,  2  S.  150. 
**        Venetian,  95. 
Vivarini,  76. 

Wealth,  evils  of,  50. 
Wise  men,  the,  166. 
Wordsworth's  *  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,'  53, 

Zacharias,  mosaic,  St.  Mark's,  161. 
Zara,  siege  of,  8. 
Zedekiah,  blinding  of,  58. 


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